Leon.

  Sed quid ego his properans concesso pedibus. lingua largior? 290
  quin ego hanc iubeo tacere, quae loquens lacerat diem?

      But why am I holding in my feet and letting out my tongue,
      and I in such a hurry?  Why don’t I tell it to shut up, with
      its wagging the day to shreds?

Lib.

  Edepol hominem infelicem, qui patronam conprimat.
  nam si quid sceleste fecit, lingua pro illo perierat.

      (aside) Good Lord!  Poor devil—­choking off his patroness! 
      Why, once he’s been up to some rascality, it’s that same
      tongue perjures herself for him.

Leon.

  Adproperabo, ne post tempus praedae praesidium parem.

      I’ll cut along, so as not to procure protection for the
      prize when it’s too late. (moves away)

Lib.

  Quae illaec praeda est? ibo advorsum atque electabo, quidquid est.
  iubeo te salvere voce summa, quo ad vires valent.

What’s that prize?  I’ll up and worm it out of him, whatever it is. (aloud) Good day to you—­(raising his voice, Leonida having paid no attention) as loud a one as my lungs allow!

Leon.

  Gymnasium flagri, salveto.

      Ah there, (turning and stopping) you whip developer!

Lib.

  Quid agis, custos carceris?

      How goes it, gaol guard?

Leon.

  O catenarum colone.

      Oh you fetter farmer.

Lib.

  O virgarum lascivia.

      Oh you rod tickler!

Leon.

  Quot pondo ted esse censes nudum?

      How much do you think you weigh, stripped?

Lib.

  Non edepol scio.

      Lord!  I don’t know.

Leon.

  Scibam ego te nescire, at pol ego, qui ted expendi, scio:  300
  nudus vinctus centum pondo es, quando pendes per pedes.

      I knew you didn’t know:  but by the Lord, I know for I’ve
      weighed you.  Stripped and tied you weigh a hundred pounds—­
      when you’re hanging by your heels.

Lib.

  Quo argumento istuc?

      What’s your proof of that?

Leon.

Ego dicam, quo argumento et quo modo. ad pedes quando adligatumst aequom centumpondium, ubi manus manicae complexae sunt atque adductae ad trabem, nec dependes nec propendes—­quin malus nequamque sis.

I’ll tell you my proof and my method.  When a fair hundred- weight is fastened to your feet, with the handcuffs hugging your hands lashed to a beam, you’re not a bit under or over the weight of—­a good-for-nothing rascal.

Lib.

  Vae tibi.

      You be damned!