MERCURY. No blinder a worm than he was before ... denying the sun. What are
you?

HIPPONAX. [Without lifting his head.] I was once ... a sort of philosopher.

MERCURY. Really! Row him across, Charon; loose him among the shades of the
poets and children, and in pity they may teach him to see.

CHARON. Come along.

[He handles him with about that sort of kindness--and no more than
enough of it--which you spend on a mangy cur. But then he stops.

What's that? Someone swimming my Styx. On the bank ... shaking himself.
Momus, my half-brother.

[And on bounds Momus. He is the comic man, it's easy to see. Well, gods
and godlings must be made to laugh sometimes, and since life is simple
to them, they laugh at the simplest things. Walking is rather serious.
So Momus never walks; he waddles, and they laugh at that. It is serious
to stand straight. So he is always knock-kneed and bandy-legged, and
they laugh like anything. And, as they never grow old, jokes never grow
old to them and they never ask for new ones. So this is always Momus's
welcome cry when he comes to make them laugh ...

MOMUS. Yes ... here we are again.

CHARON. And in a nice state.

MOMUS. Almost almighty Mercury, take me with you. I know why Psyche went