"...  there was a troup[e] of lovely old women who worshipped his every
syllable in a way I found infectious." Weidler opined, meagerly.


After years of continence
he hurled himself in a sea of six women.
Now, quenched as the brand of Meleagar,
he lies by the poluphloisboious sea-coast.
        -- EP, Moeurs Contemporaines: Stele