Advance to the front; advance, that ye may be within the purified2 ground.

Has any one spoken yet?

Who wishes to speak?

I.

Who are you?

Amphitheüs.

Not a man?

No; but an immortal. For Amphitheüs was son of Ceres and Triptolemus; and of him was born Celeüs; and Celeüs married my grandmother Phænarete, of whom was born Lucinus; and from him I, an immortal, am descended; and to me alone the gods intrusted to make peace with the Lacedæmonians. Yet, immortal as I am, sirs, I have no travelling allowance, for the Prytanes grant3 none.

Ho, Tipstaffs!

Triptolemus and Celeüs, will you allow me to be treated thus?

Mr. Prytanes, you wrong the assembly in ordering the man to be led away,1 who was wishing to make peace for us, and hang up our bucklers. [Amphitheüs is ejected by force.]

Sit down, and hold your tongue.

By Apollo, will I not, unless you bring forward a motion for peace.

The ambassadors from the king.

What king?2 I am aweary of ambassadors, and their peacocks,3 and their quackeries. [Enter ambassadors gorgeously dressed out.]

Silence!

Bah! Ecbatana, what a dress!

You sent us to the great king, with a salary of two drachmæ a day, in the archonship of Euthymenes.4

Ah me! the drachmæ!

And in truth we were worn out with wandering about in tents along the plain of the Cayster, being half killed with reclining luxuriously on our close carriages.

Why, did I get off well, who lay upon litter5 beside the battlements?

And being entertained with hospitality, we drank against our wills, from cups of glass and golden chalices, sweet unmixed wine.

O city of Cranaus! perceivest thou the mockery of the ambassadors?

For the Barbarians esteem those only men, who have the greatest power to eat and drink.

While we consider wenchers and debauchees as such.6

Howbeit, on the fourth year we arrived at the palace; but he had gone to ease himself, having taken an army; and for eight months he eased himself upon the golden mountains.

When did the effects of the medicine wear off?

At the full of the moon, and then he returned home Edition: current; Page: [6] Then he entertained us, and served up to us whole oxen from the baking pot.

And who ever beheld baked oxen? What impostures!

And, by Jupiter, he served up to us a bird thrice the size of Cleonymus:1 its name was Cheat.

For this reason then you ‘cheated’ us in taking two drachmæ.

And now we have brought with us Pseudartabas, the King’s Eye.

Would that a crow would strike and knock thine out, ambassador.

The King’s Eye!

King Hercules! By the gods, man, do you look like a man of war, or, while doubling a promontory, are you looking out for a dry-dock? A rowlock-leather you have, I ween, about your eye below.

Come now, Pseudartabas, declare what the king sent you to say to the Athenians.

Iartaman exarx’ anapissonai satra.2

Do you understand what he says?

By Apollo, not I.

He says the king will send you gold. Now say gold’ louder, and distinctly.

Ou lepsi cruso chaunoproct’ iaonau.3

O wretched me! how distinctly!

What, then, says he?

Ask what he says?—he says the Ionians are gaping fools, if they expect gold from the Barbarians.

Not so; he speaks of chaldrons1 of gold.

What2 chaldrons? Truly you are a great impostor. But go to; I will examine this man myself. Come now, tell me clearly, in the presence of this ambassador, lest I dip you in a Sardian3 dye; will the great king send us any gold? [Pseudartabas gives a nod of dissent.] Are we then heedlessly gulled by our ambassador? [Pseudartabas gives a nod of assent.] These fellows nodded assent at least in Greek, and they are certainly from this very country: and of the two eunuchs, this here one I know, who he is—Clisthenes, the son of Sibyrtius. O thou who hast a hot-tempered rump shaven,4 with such a beard as this, hast thou come to us dressed as a eunuch? But whoever is this? Surely it is not Straton?

Silence: be seated. The senate invites the King’s Eye to the Prytaneum. [Exeunt Pseudartabas and attendants.]

Is not this, pray, as bad as hanging? And then do I, forsooth, tarry here? while the door never5 restrains them from entertaining guests. I will do a dread and mighty deed. Where is Amphitheüs?

See, here he is. [Enter Amphitheüs.]

For me alone, and for my children, and my wife, take these eight drachmæ, and make peace with the Lacedæmonians. But do you1 send your embassies, and gape away. [Exit Amphitheüs.]

Let Theorus come forth, who has returned from Sitacles.

Here am I!

This is another impostor, who is summoned.

We would not have been a long time in Thrace—

By Jove, you wouldn’t, if you did not receive a long salary.

Had not Zeus covered the whole of Thrace with snow and congealed the rivers, about the very time when Theognis2 here was contending for the prize. During this time I was drinking with Sitacles. And, in truth, he was marvellously fond of the Athenians, and of you he was a sincere lover, so that he was even in the habit of writing on the walls3 “Pretty Athenians.” And his son,4 whom we had made an Athenian citizen, was desirous of eating Apaturian5 sausages, and entreated his father to aid his country. And he swore with a libation, that he would lend his assistance, with so great a host, that the Athenians should exclaim, “What a swarm of locusts6 approaches!”

May I die the worst of deaths, if I believe one jot of this, which you have said here, except the locusts.

And now he has sent you the most warlike tribe of the Thracians.

This is now evident.

Come hither, you Thracians, whom Theorus brought.

What plague have we here?

A band of the Odomanti.1

What Odomanti?2 Tell me, what means this? How came the Odomanti to resemble lewd Athenians?

If one give them two drachmæ as their pay, they will overrun with light-armed troops the whole of Bœotia.

Two drachmæ to these lewd fellows! With reason might our topmost rowers groan, the safeguards of the state. [Thracians attack Dicæopolis and rob him.] Ah me, unhappy man, I am undone! being robbed of my garlic by the Odomanti. Will you not lay down my garlic?

Wretched man! Don’t approach3 these fellows when primed with garlic.

Do the Prytanes suffer me to be treated thus in my own country, and that too at the hands of Barbarians? I forbid you to hold an assembly4 for the Thracians on the subject of pay, and acquaint you that there is an omen from the sky,5 and that a drop of rain has struck me.

The Thracians will retire, and present themselves the day after6 to-morrow; for the Prytanes7 dismiss the assembly. [Exeunt Theorus, Herald, &c.]

Ah me, unhappy man! what an olio have I lost! But here’s Amphitheüs from Lacedæmon. Hail, Amphitheüs! [Enter Amphitheüs.]

Not yet, until I cease running; for I am obliged to escape from the Acharnians by flight.

What’s the matter?

I was hastening hitherward, bringing you a peace, but certain seniors of Acharnæ got scent of me, sturdy old fellows, tough as oak, inflexible, Marathon men, stout as maple. Then all of them lifted up their voices—“Abandoned villain! do you bring a peace, when our vines are cut?” And they set a gathering some stones into their cloaks. But I fled, while they pursued and bellowed.

Then let them bellow.1 But bringest thou the aforesaid peace?

Aye marry, here are three samples. These are for five years. Take and taste.

Bah!

What’s the matter?

They please me not, because they smell of pitch and naval preparations.2

At least take and taste this, which is for ten years.

This too smells very sharply of embassies to our towns, as it were of delay amongst the allies.

Well, this is for thirty3 years, both by land and sea.

O Dionysia! These truly smell of ambrosia and nectar, and not to have in readiness provision for three4 days; and they say openly, “Go where thou wilt.” These I receive, I make libation with, and will drink up, bidding a long farewell to the Acharnians. And I, freed from war and toils, will go within and celebrate the rural Dionysia.5 [Exit Dicæopolis.]

While1 I will escape from the Acharnians. [Exit Amphitheüs.]

Follow, each of you, this way, pursue, and inquire after the man from all the travellers; for ’tis worthy of our city to seize this fellow. But declare to me, if any one knows where in the world he that bears the peace has turned. He is fled away; he is vanished and gone. Alas my years, wretched man that I am! In the days of my youth, when, bearing a load of coals, I followed Phayllus in the race, this truce-bearer would not have so easily escaped, when pursued by me; neither would he have so nimbly slipped off. But now, since at length my shin is stiffened, and the legs of the aged Lacratides are wearied, he is gone. He must be pursued; for never let2 him laugh at us, nor one who, by having escaped the Acharnians, old men as we are, made peace, O Jove and ye gods, with our foes, against whom, on account of my estates, hostile war is increased by me; and I will not give over until, like a rush, I stick right into them sharp, painful, up to the hilt, so that they may never again trample on my vines. We must seek for the fellow, and look towards Ballene,3 and pursue him from land to land,4 until at length he be found: for I could not be surfeited with pelting him with stones.

Use no ill-omened words: use no ill-omened words.

Silence, each of you. Did you hear, friends, the proclamation of silence? This is the very person whom we are seeking for. Hither, each of you; get out of his way; for the man, as it seems, is coming out to sacrifice.

Use no ill-omened words: use no ill-omened words. Edition: current; Page: [12] Let the basket-bearer advance a little forward. Let Xanthias set up the Phallus erect.

Do you, my daughter, put down the basket, that we may commence the rites.

Mother, reach here the soup-ladle, that I may pour some soup upon this pan-cake.

Well, now ’tis right, O sovereign Bacchus, that I, having led this procession agreeably to thee, and having sacrificed with my household, should celebrate the rural Dionysia happily, having been freed from military service; and that my peace for thirty years turn out well.

Come, daughter, take care that, pretty as you are, you bear the basket prettily, with a verjuice face. How blest the man who shall wed you, and beget upon you pussies to—stink no less than you, as soon as it is dawn. Proceed, and in the crowd take especial care, that no one secretly nibbles off your golden ornaments.

O Xanthias,1 you two must hold the Phallus erect behind the basket-bearer, and I following will sing the Phallic hymn; and do you, wife, look at me from the house-top. [Exeunt wife and daughter.] Proceed, O Phales, companion of Bacchus, fellow-reveller, roaming by night, friend of love and lechery: in the sixth year I address you, having come with delight to my township, having made for myself a peace, and being freed from troubles and battles and Lamachi.2 For it is far sweeter, O Phales, Phales! having found a pretty woodgatherer, Strymodorus’ Thracian maid, purloining wood from Phelleus,3 to catch her by the waist and lift her up, and throw her down and roll her in the grass. O Phales, Phales! if with us you quaff your cups, in the morning, after your sick head-ache, you shall gulp down a bowl—of peace; and my shield shall be hung up amidst the sparks.

This is the very fellow, this: pelt, pelt, pelt, pelt; strike, strike the wretch, each of you; will you not pelt? will you not pelt? [Chorus pelts him.]

O Hercules! what’s this? You ’ll smash my pitcher.

Nay, rather, we will stone you to death, rascally fellow.

For what cause, Acharnian seniors?

Do you ask this? You are shameless and abominable, O betrayer of your country, who, having made a peace without us,1 canst look me in the face.

But ye do not know wherefore I made the peace: hear me.

Shall we hear you? You shall perish; we will overwhelm you with stones.

By no means, before you hear me; come, have patience, good sirs.

I will not be patient; nor do thou utter a word to me, for I hate thee still more than Cleon, whom I will2 cut up into shoe-soles for the Knights. I ’ll not hearken to you uttering long speeches, who have made a peace with the Lacedæmonians; but will punish you.

Good sirs, leave the Lacedæmonians out of the question; and hear my peace, if I have rightly made it.

How can you any more talk of “rightly,” if once you have made peace with those, with whom neither altar, nor pledge, nor oath3 holds good?

I know that the Lacedæmonians, against whom we are excessively vehement, are not the causes of all our troubles.

Not of all, you villain? Hast thou the audacity, pray, openly to say this to us? Then shall I spare you?

Not of all, not of all; but I here, who address you, could prove abundantly that they have even been injured in some cases.

This expression is dreadful and heart-troubling, if you shall dare to speak to us in defence of our foes.

And if I speak not what is just, and am not approved of by the people, I shall be ready to speak with this neck of mine over a chopping-block.

Tell me, fellow-tribesmen, why spare we our stones, so as not to card4 this fellow into a scarlet rag?

How again a black burning coal has blazed up within you! Will you not hear, will you not hear, pray,1 O sons of the Acharnians?

Assuredly we will not hear you.

Then I shall suffer dreadful things.

May I utterly perish if I hear you.

By no means, O Acharnians.

Be assured now that you shall die.

Then I will sting you; for I will kill in turn the dearest of your friends, since I have hostages of you, whom I will take and butcher.2 [Seizes a hamper of charcoal, and dresses it up like a baby.]

Tell me,3 fellow-tribesmen, what word is this, with which he threatens us Acharnians? Has he shut up within a child of any of those present? or at what is he emboldened?

Pelt, if ye will, for I will kill this one. I shall quickly know who of you cares at all for coals.

How we are undone! this coal-basket is my fellow tribesman. But do not do what you purpose; by no means, O by no means!

Be assured that I will kill him:4 cry on, for I will not hear you.

Will you then kill this my companion in age, the friend of colliers?

But you did not just now give ear to me when I spoke.

Well now, if it seems good to you, say that the Lacedæmonians themselves are dear to your mind; for never will I betray this little coal-basket.

First, then,5 empty your stones upon the ground.

See, they’re on the ground; and do you in turn lay down your sword.

But see that some stones are not lying in ambush somewhere in your cloaks.1

They have been shook out on the ground. Don’t you see it shaking? No excuses; lay down your weapon; since this is shaken with the whirl in the dance.

So then you were all of you going2 to raise a war-cry, and the coals of Parnes all but met with their death, and that too on account of the unnatural conduct of their fellow-tribesmen; and under the influence of fear the coal-basket, like a cuttle-fish, squirted upon me abundant coal-dust. For it is a sad thing that the mind of men should be naturally harsh,3 so as to pelt and shout and be willing to hear nothing which offers half and half, while I am willing to say over a chopping-block all that I say in behalf of the Lacedæmonians; and yet I love my life.

Why then don’t you bring out the chopping-block and state, you wretch, whatever is this weighty matter which you have in hand? for an earnest desire strongly possesses me to know what you have in your mind. But place here the chopping-block and begin to speak, as you yourself determined the punishment. [Exit Dicæopolis, and re-enter with a chopping-block.]

Lo, behold! here is the chopping-block, and the man who is to speak, see here! as small as this! Of4 a surety I’ll not fit myself with a shield, by Jupiter, but will speak in behalf of the Lacedæmonians what seems good to me. And yet I greatly fear, for I know the humour of the rustics to be wondrous tickled, if any quack praise them and their city, right or wrong: and there unknowingly they are bought and sold.⁵ Of the elders again I know the mind, that they look Edition: current; Page: [16] to nothing else except vexing with their vote; and I know what I suffered myself at the hands of Cleon, on account of my last1 year’s comedy. For he dragged me into the senate-house, and calumniated me, and spoke lies against me, and roared like the torrent Cycloboros, and drenched me so that I almost perished altogether, getting into dirty quarrels. Now, therefore, in the first place permit me. ere I speak, to clothe myself like a most wretched man.

Why shuffle in this way, and deal subtilly, and contrive delays? Borrow, for all I care, from Hieronymus2 some helmet of Pluto dark with rough thick hair, and then exhibit Sisyphus’s wiles, since this trial will not admit of any excuse.3

Then ’tis time for me to take a bold heart, and I must repair to Euripides.—Slave, slave! [Knocks at the door.]

Who’s that?

Is Euripides within?

Not within, he is within, if you have any sense.

How within, and then not within?

Rightly, old man. His mind, collecting scraps of poetry abroad, is not within, while he himself within is making tragedy with his legs lying up.4

Thrice happy Euripides! when your servant interprets5 so wisely. Call him out.

It is impossible.

Still you must; for I won’t go away, but will knock Edition: current; Page: [17] at the door. Euripides, dear little Euripides,1 hearken if ever you did to any man. Dicæopolis of Collidæ calls you—I.

I have no leisure.

Yet be wheeled out.

It is impossible.

Yet, however, do.

Well then, I will be wheeled out; but I have no leisure to descend. [Euripides is wheeled in.]

Euripides!

What sayest thou?

You make verses with your legs lying up, when you might with them down. No2 wonder you make your characters lame. But why wear you the rags from tragedy, a piteous attire? No wonder you make your characters beggars. Come, I beseech you by your knees, Euripides, give me some little rag from your old drama,3 for I must speak a lengthy speech to the chorus; and if I speak it badly it brings me death.

What rags? those in which Æneus here, the wretched old man, contended? [Points to a suit of rags.]

They were not Æneus’s, but a still more wretched man’s.

The rags of the blind Phœnix?

Not Phœnix’s, no; there was another more miserable than Phœnix.

What ragged garments does the man require? What! do you mean the rags of the beggar Philoctetes?

No; but of one far, far more beggarly than he.

What! do you wish for the squalid garments which Bellerophon, this lame fellow, wore?

Not Bellerophon; yet he too, whom I mean, was lame, an importunate beggar, and the deuce at talking.

I know the man—Telephus of Mysia.

Aye, Telephus: give me, I entreat you, his swaddling-clothes.

Slave, give him the rags of Telephus: they lie above the Thyestean rags, between1 those of Ino and his.

Well! take them.

O Jupiter, that seest through2 and beholdest all things on every side, grant me to dress myself like a most wretched man.3 [Puts on the old coat.] Euripides, since you have freely given me these, give me also those things which go with the rags—the little Mysian cap about my head. “For4 to-day ’tis needful that I seem to be a beggar; to be indeed what I am, but not to appear so.” The spectators must know who I am; but the chorus, on the other hand, must stand by like fools, that I may fillip them with quibbles.5

I will give it; for you devise subtleties with a sagacious intellect.

Mayest thou be happy! but to Telephus,6 what I wish him. Bravo! How I am filled now with quibbles! But still I want the beggar’s stick.

Take this, and begone from my stone dwelling.

My soul,—for thou seest how I am driven away from his house, though in want of many articles of dress,—now be thou importunate, teasing, and earnest in prayer. Euripides, give me a little basket burnt through with a lamp.

What need, unhappy man, possesses you for this wicker-work?

No need, but still I wish to take it.

Know that thou art troublesome, and begone from my house.

Alas! Mayest thou be happy, as once thy mother!

Now leave me.

Nay, grant me only one little cup whose rim is knocked off!

Take it, and be damned!1 know that you are troublesome to the house.

By Jove, (aside,) you know not yet what ills you work yourself.—But, sweetest Euripides, give me only this, a little pipkin stopped up as to its chinks with sponge.

Fellow, you will rob me of my tragedy.2 Take this and depart.

I am going: and yet what shall I do? for I need one thing, which, if I obtain not, I am undone. Hear, sweetest Euripides! If I obtain this, I will depart, and will not come any more. Give me some withered green-stuff for my little basket.

You will ruin me. Here they are. My dramas are vanished!

Well, I’ll beg no more, but will be gone; for I am exceeding troublesome,3 “not considering that the chiefs abhor Edition: current; Page: [20] me.” Ah me, unhappy! how I am undone! I have forgotten that on which all my affairs depend. Sweetest and dearest little Euripides! may I perish most miserably, if I ask for any thing any more, but one thing only, this only one, this only one. Give me the chervil you got from your mother.1

The fellow becomes insolent: shut the door.2 [Ex eunt Euripides and his slave.]

Heart of mine! we must proceed sans chervil. Do you know how great is the contest you will soon have to encounter, about to speak in behalf of the Lacedæmonians? Proceed then, my heart! there is the starting-place! Do you stand? Will you not go, after having imbibed Euripides?—I commend you. Come now, unhappy heart! go there, and then, there offer your head, and say what seems you good. Dare:—go: advance.3 Well done, heart! [Lays his head on the chopping-block.]

What will you do? What will you say? Know now that you are a shameless and an iron-hearted man, who, having offered your neck to the state, alone are going to contradict them all. The man does not tremble at the cause. Come now, since you yourself make the choice, say on.

Take it not ill of me, spectators, if, being a beggar,4 I am yet about to speak amongst the Athenians on the subject of their state, in comic verse, for even comedy knows what is Edition: current; Page: [21] right: and my words will be severe, but just. For Cleon shall not now1 calumniate me, that I slander the state in the presence of strangers; for we are by ourselves, and the contest is in the Lenæum;2 and as yet strangers are not present; for neither is the tribute come in, nor the allies from the states. But now we are winnowed clean; for the sojourners I call the chaff of the citizens. I hate the Lacedæmonians exceedingly, and may Neptune, the god of Tænarus, with an earthquake,3 shake and throw down on all of them their houses; for my vines have been cut down as well as yours. But,—for those who are present at my speech are friends, why do we thus accuse the Lacedæmonians? For men of us,—I do not mean the state, bear this in mind, that I do not mean the state, but certain rascally fellows, base coin, unfranchised, and counterfeit, and alien-citizens, were in the habit of informing against the small cloaks of the Megarians:4 and if any where they were to see a cucumber, or a leveret, or a sucking-pig, or garlic, or salt in lumps,5 these were Megarian, and were confiscated the same day. And these, indeed, are trifles, and customary.6 But certain young men, drunk with playing at the cottabus, went to Megara and stole away the courtesan Simætha; and then the Megarians, excited by their griefs, stole away in return two harlots from Aspasia;7 and hence the beginning of the war broke out for all the Greeks from three strumpets. Then Pericles, the Olympian, in his ire, lightened, thundered, utterly confounded Greece, enacted laws, written like catches, “That the Megarians should neither remain in our territory, nor in our markets, Edition: current; Page: [22] nor on the sea, nor on the mainland.”1 Then the Megarians, when now they were gradually famishing, entreated the Lacedæmonians that the decree which had been made on account of the strumpets might be changed through their intervention; and we were not willing, though they often entreated us. And after this now there was a clatter of bucklers. Some one will observe, we ought not: but tell us what we ought to have done. Come, if some Lacedæmonian sailed out with his ship and informed against and sold a little Seriphian dog, would you have sat still at home? Far from it, certainly. Most assuredly you would have launched immediately three hundred vessels, and the city would have been full of the din of soldiery, of shouting about the election of a Trierarch, pay being issued, figure-heads getting gilded, piazzas groaning, provisions getting measured out, of wine-skins, of oar-leathers, of people buying jars, of garlic, olives, onions in nets, chaplets, sprats, flute-girls, and black eyes. And the dockyard again had been filled with spars getting cut into oars, wooden pins sounding, bottom-oars getting furnished with thongs, boatswain’s flutes, fifes, whistlings. I know that you would have done this, “and do we not imagine that Telephus2 will do the like? Then there is no sense in us.”

What, really, you rogue and blackguard? Have you the audacity to say this of us, you beggar? And if any of us has been an informer, do you upbraid us with it?

Yea, by Neptune, and he says too, what he does say, all justly; and about none of them does he tell lies.

Then, if it was just, ought this fellow to mention it? But neither shall you dare to say this with impunity.4

Hollo you! whither are you running? will you not stop? Since if you strike this man, you yourself shall quickly be raised aloft!1

Ho, Lamachus! thou who lookest lightning, help us, thou with the Gorgon crest, having appeared!—Ho, Lamachus! friend! fellow-tribesman! let every one assist with speed, if any there be a Taxiarch or engineer, for I am seized by the middle.

Whence heard I the warrior cry? Whither must I render assistance? whither send in tumult? Who roused the Gorgon from my shield’s cover?

O hero Lamachus! what crests and cohorts!

O Lamachus! has not this fellow for a long time been speaking evil of our whole city?

You there! do you, you beggar, dare say this?

O hero Lamachus! yet pardon me, if, a beggar, I have spoken, and babbled any thing.

What have you said of us? Will you not tell?

I don’t know as yet, for I am dizzy in my head through fear of your arms. But, I entreat you, remove from me the bugbear.2

Very well! [Turns away the shield from him.]

Now place it for me upside down.3

There it lies. [Puts the shield upside down before him.]

Come now, give me the feather4 out of your helmet.

Here’s a feather for you.

Now take hold of my head, that I may vomit, for my stomach’s turned at the crests.

Hollo you! what are you going to do? Are you about to cause a vomit with the feather?

Why, is it a feather? Tell me, what bird’s? Is it a braggadocio’s?1

Woe for you, assuredly you shall2 die. [A scuffle, in which Lamachus is foiled.]

By no means, Lamachus; for it is not a matter for such strength as yours. But if you are strong, why don’t you give a proof of it? for you are well armed.

You say this of your general, you beggar?

Why, am I a beggar?

Then what are you?

Ask me who?—a good citizen, no stickler for office, but, since what time the war commenced, a son of Mars; while you, since what time the war commenced, a Mr. Placeman.

For they elected me.

Aye,3 three cuckoos. Therefore, being disgusted at this, I made peace, when I saw hoary-headed men in the ranks, but striplings, such as you,4 shirking the service;5 some in Thrace, with an allowance of three drachmæ, Tisameno-Phænippi;6 Panourg-Hipparchidæ; others with Chares; others among the Chaonians, Gereto-Theodori; Edition: current; Page: [25] Diomei-Alazones; others at Camarina,1 and at Gela, and at Catagela!2

For they were elected.

But what’s the reason that you somehow or other always receive pay, while none of these present gets any? Prithee, Marilades, you with the grey head, have you ever been on an embassy? [touches his pocket.] See! he shakes his head; and yet he is temperate and hard-working. What, pray, says Dracyllus, or Euphorides, or Prinides? Has any among you knowledge of Ecbatana, or the Chaonians? They say no. But the son of Cæsyra3 and Lamachus know them; whom lately, on account of their shot and debts, like those who pour out their dirty wash-water of an evening, all their friends exhorted,4 “Get out of the way.”

O democracy! Is this then to be endured?

Certainly not, unless Lamachus gets paid for it.

Well then, I will ever wage war with the Peloponnesians, and will harass them in every way, both with ships and land forces, to the best of my power.

I, on the other hand, give notice to all the Peloponnesians, and Megarians, and Bœotians, to sell, to traffic with me, but not with Lamachus.5 [Exeunt omnes.]

The man prevails with his arguments, and makes converts of the people on the subject of the peace. But let us strip and follow with our Anapæsts.

These are the boundaries of my market-place. Here it is allowable for all the Peloponnesians, and Megarians, and Bœotians to traffic, on condition that5 they sell to me, and not to Lamachus. But as clerks of the market6 I appoint these three, who have obtained the office by lot,—thongs from Mangetown. Here let neither any sycophant enter, nor any other that is a man of Phasis.7 But I will go to fetch the pillar,8 Edition: current; Page: [30] upon which I have inscribed the peace, that I may set it up in the market-place open to view. [Exit Dicæopolis.]

Market of Athens, hail! beloved of the Megarians! By the god of friendship, I longed for you, as for a mother. But, O unhappy daughters of a miserable father, get2 up to the barley-cake, if any where you find it. Hear, pray; let your bellies3 give attention. Whether do you wish to be sold, or miserably starve?

To be sold! to be sold!

I also myself say yes. But who so simple as to buy you, an evident loss? However, I have a certain Megarian device; for I will dress you up as hogs and say I am bringing them for sale. Put on these hog’s hoofs, and take care that you appear to be the offspring of a noble sow; since, by Mercury, if you shall come home, you shall miserably experience4 excess of hunger. Put on also these little snouts, and then enter thus into the sack. But take care that you grunt and cry coï, and utter the voice of the pigs of the Mysteries.5 While I will call Dicæopolis, to see where he is.6 Dicæopolis! do you wish to buy some little pigs?

What! a Megarian?

We have come to traffic.

How fares it with you?7

We are always hungering one against the other by the fire-side.

By Jove, but that’s jolly, if a piper be present. But what else are you Megarians about now?

Just what we are doing.1 When I set out from thence, the committee were contriving this for the state, how we might most quickly and most miserably perish!

Then you will soon get rid of your troubles.

Certainly.

But what else is going on at Megara? What is the price2 of grain?

With us, of a high price, like the gods.

Do you then bring3 salt?

Have you not the command of it?

Nor yet garlic?

What garlic?—the heads of which you always grub up with a stake, like field-mice, whenever you make your inroads.

What then do you bring?

Why, pigs for the mysteries.

You say well: show them.

But indeed they are fine ones. Take one up, if you will. How fat and sleek!

What is this?

A pig, by Jove!

What say you? What country pig is this?

Of Megara. Or is not this a pig?

It does not seem so to me.

Is it not shameful? See the incredulity of the man He says this is not a pig. But sooth, if you will, make a wager with me now for salt flavoured with thyme, if this is not a pig after the usage of the Greeks.4

Yet at least it is a woman’s.5

’Tis mine, by Diocles! Whose do you suppose they are? Do you wish to hear them speak?

By the gods I do.

Speak quickly now, piggy. Devil take you,1 you must not be silent. By Mercury, I will carry you home again!

Coï, coï.

Is this a pig?

Aye, now it seems a pig, but when grown up it will be a sow.

Within five years, be well assured, it will be like to its mother.

But this one here is not fit for sacrifice.

Why not? How is it not fit for sacrifice?

It has not a tail.

For it is young: but when grown up to pig’s estate, it will have a great thick red one. But if you like to bring it up, here’s a fine pig for you!

How similar this one is to the other.

For it is of the same mother,2 and of the same father. But when it is grown fat and hairy, it will be a very fine pig to sacrifice to Venus.

But pig is not sacrificed to Venus.

Not a pig to Venus? Yea, to her only of the gods. And the flesh too of these pigs is sweetest when it is pierced with a spit.3

Can they feed now without their mother?

Aye, by Neptune, and without their father too

But what do they like best to eat?

Whatever you give them. Ask them yourself.

Pig! Pig!

Coï, coï.

Can you eat chick-pease?

Coï, coï, coï.

What then? Early4 figs?

Coï, coï.

How sharply you squeak at the figs! Let some one bring in some figs from within for the little pigs.2 Will they eat them? Bless me! How they do munch them, much-esteemed Hercules! Of what country are the pigs? How3 Tragasean they look. But they have not perhaps4 eaten up all the figs.

No—for I took up this one of them.

By Jove, the beasts are fine ones! For how much shall I buy5 your little grunters of you? Say.

The one for a bunch of garlic; the other, if you will, for a single chœnix of salt.

I’ll buy them of you. Wait you here.

Aye, aye,6 sir. [Exit Dicæopolis.] Mercury, thou god of traffic, grant me to sell my wife in this way, and my mother too!

Fellow! of what country are you?

A pig-merchant of Megara.

Then I will inform against these little pigs and you, as enemies.

The very7 thing! Again it comes, whence the beginning of our woes took its rise.

You shall Megarize to your cost. Will you not let go the sack?

Dicæopolis! Dicæopolis! I am informed against by some one.

Who is he that informs against you? Clerks of the market, will you not exclude the informers? What has come into your head, pray,1 that you lay2 informations without a wick?

What! shall I not inform against our foes?

Aye, to your cost, if you will not run elsewhere and play the informer. [Exit Informer.]

What an evil is this in Athens!

Be of good heart, Megarian. Come, take this garlic here, and the salt, at which price you sold your pigs, and fare thee well!

But to fare well is not in fashion with us.3

On my own head then be the impertinence.

My little grunters, make the attempt, even without your father, to eat the cake to your salt,4 if any one offer it. [Exeunt omnes.]

The man is prosperous! Have you not heard how the measure5 succeeds? For the man will reap the benefit, sitting in the market-place. And if any Ctesias enter, or other informer, he shall sit down in tears. Neither shall any other man injure you by cheating you in the purchase of provisions. Neither shall Prepis wipe upon you his lewdness.6 Nor shall you jostle with Cleonymus; but shall pass through with a clean cloak. And Hyperbolus, when he meets with you, shall not involve you in lawsuits. Nor yet, again, Edition: current; Page: [35] shall Cratinus, when he falls in with you in the market-place, walk up to you with his head close shaven,1 the very rascally Artemo, the man so very rapid in his music, stinking beastly of his Tragasean father in his arm-pits.2 Neither, again, shall the most villanous Pauson jeer you; nor Lysistratus in the forum, the disgrace of Cholargeus, he who is double-dyed in villany, shivering and starving continually more than thirty days3 each month.

Let Hercules be witness, I am wretchedly tired in my neck. Ismenias, do you lay down the penny-royal gently. But you, as many flute-players4 as are present from Thebes, with your bone pipes play “the dog’s backside.”

(coming out of his house). Go to the devil! Won’t you get away from my doors, you wasps? Whence have the bumble-bees of Chæris (the devil take them!) flown to my doors?5 [Exeunt pipers.]

With pleasure, stranger, by Iolaus. For playing behind me from Thebes, they have shaken off the blossoms of the penny-royal on the ground. But, if you like, purchase some of the fowls or locusts,6 which I bring.

Hail, my roll-eating little Bœotian! What are you bringing?

Absolutely whatever is good amongst the Bœotians: origanum, penny-royal, rush-mats, wicks, ducks, jackdaws, woodcocks, coots, sand-pipers, divers.

Then you have come to the market, as if a tempest of birds.

Moreover I bring geese, hares, foxes, moles, hedge-hogs, cats, beavers, ferrets, otters, Copaïc eels.

O thou that bringest a fish most delightful to men! if you are bearing the eels, permit me to address them.

“Eldest1 of fifty Copaïc daughters,” come forth, and be civil to this2 stranger.

O dearest thou, and long desired! Thou hast come longed for indeed by the comic chorusses, and dear to Morychus.3 Attendants, bring out for me the brazier and the fan hither. [Servants crowd round the eel.] Look, my boys, at the splendid eel, which has come at length in the sixth year, longed for. Address it, my children, and I will furnish you with coals for this stranger’s sake. But carry it in: for not even when dead may I ever be bereft of you stewed in beet.4

But how shall I have a recompense for this?

This one, perhaps, you will give me as my market toll. But if you are for selling any of these others, say on.

All these will I.

Come, for how much, say you? Or will you take home other wares from hence?

Aye, whatever there is at Athens, and not among the Bœotians.

Will you buy and take with you Phaleric anchovies, or crockery?

Anchovies or crockery? We have them at home. Let me have whatever is not amongst us, but is, on the contrary, abundant here.

Then I know your wants: bring out an informer, having packed him up like crockery.

By the two gods,1 I should certainly get even a large profit, if I took him with me, like an ape full of much mischief.

And see! here comes Nicarchus to lay informations.

He is small in stature.

But all there is of him is bad.

Whose are these wares?

Mine here,2 from Thebes, be Jove my witness.

I then here inform against them as an enemy’s.

What ails you3 then that you have commenced war and battle with the little birds?

I will inform against you too, as well as these.

In what way having been injured?

I will tell you, for the good of the bystanders. You are importing wicks4 from the enemy.

And so, forsooth, you are for informing against a wick?

Yes; for this wick might set fire to the dock-yard.

A wick a dockyard? Oh! oh!—As how?

A Bœotian might stick it in a tom-tailor,5 and kindle it and send it into the dockyard through a sewer, having watched for a mighty wind. And if the fire were once to catch the ships, they would be immediately in a blaze.

Abandoned miscreant! would they be in a blaze from a tom-tailor and a wick? [Beats him.]

I call you all to witness!

Stop his mouth! Give me some straw, that I may Edition: current; Page: [38] take and pack him up like crockery, lest he get broken in the carriage.1 [Throws him down and packs him up.]

Pack up well, good sir, the stranger’s2 merchandise in such a manner, that he may not break it in carrying it.

This shall be my care; for of a truth it rings3 loud, and cracked, and hateful to the gods besides.

Whatever will he make of it?

It will be a vessel good for all work; a mixer for mischiefs; a pestle for law-suits; a lamp to inform against4 those liable to give in an account; and a cup to mix up troubles in.

But how could any one confidently use such a vessel in his house, always making such a jar?

It is strong, good sir, so that it would never break, if it were suspended by the feet, head downwards. [Lifts him up by the legs.]

It’s all right now.

Marry, I am going to make a harvest.5

But, best of strangers, with this man on your side, take and make an attack, where’er you please, upon every informer.6

At last I’ve packed him up, and be damned to him! Bœotian, take and bear off your crockery.

Stoop your neck as you go, Ismenias.

And take care that you carry him with caution. At1 all events you ’ll carry a shaky piece of goods.—Yet still up with it. And if you make any gain by carrying this merchandise, you ’ll be a happy man, as far2 as informers are concerned. [Exit Bœotian carrying the informer on his back.]

Dicæopolis!

What is the matter! Why do you call me?

Why? Lamachus requested you to let him have for this here drachma some of your thrushes for the feast of Pitchers. But requested you to let him have a Copaïc eel for three drachmæ.

Who may this Lamachus be that requests the eel?

The dreaded one, he with the shield of tough bull’s-hide, who brandishes the Gorgon, waving three over-shadowing crests.

I would not, by Jove, if even he were to give me his buckler. Let him wave3 his crests at salt-fish. But should he make a great din, I will call the Market-clerks. And I will take this merchandise for myself, and enter to the accompaniment of thrushes’ wings4 and blackbirds. [Exeunt omnes.]

You have seen, oh! you have seen, city at large, the prudent man, the very wise, what articles of merchandise he is able to deal in, by having made peace; of which some are useful in the house, others again are suitable to eat up warm. All good things are spontaneously provided for him. Never will I welcome War5 to my house, nor yet shall he ever at my house chaunt “The Harmodius,” seated as a guest; because he is a fellow quarrelsome over his cups, who, having Edition: current; Page: [40] made a furious assault upon us, possessed of every blessing, perpetrated all evils, and overturned, and squandered, and fought; and, moreover, when I frequently invited him: “Drink, sit down, take this cup of friendship,”—so much the more burnt our vine-props in the fire, and in our despite poured out the wine from our vines. * * * to a feast; at the1 same time also he is highly elated, and, as a proof of his good fare, threw out these feathers2 before his doors.

O Reconciliation,3 companion of the beautiful Venus and the dear Graces, I never knew you had so fair a face! Would4 that some Cupid, with a chaplet of flowers, like the5 one in the picture, would take and join together me and thee! or, do you consider me peradventure a very old man? Yet, if I gained you, I fancy I could add three things beside: first, I would plant a long row of vines; then, near to this, some young suckers of young fig-trees; and thirdly, I, this old man here, would plant a branch of the cultivated vine; and about your whole estate olives round about, so that you and I may anoint ourselves from them at the New-moons.

“O yez, O yez! according to our national6 customs Edition: current; Page: [41] you must drink the Pitchers at the sound of trumpet; and whosoever shall have first emptied his Pitcher, shall receive the wine-skin of Ctesiphon.”1 [Exit Herald.]

Slaves, women, did you not hear? What are you about? Do you not hear the Herald? Boil, roast, turn, draw off the hare’s flesh quickly, wreathe the chaplets. Bring the spits, that I may spit the thrushes.

I deem you happy for your good counsel, but more, sir, for your present good cheer.

What then will ye say, when ye see the thrushes roasting?

I believe you say this also rightly.2

Stir up the fire.

Did you hear how cook-like and daintily and dinner-like he serves up to himself?

Ah me, unhappy man!

O Hercules! who is this?

A miserable man.

Then go your own way.3

My dearest sir, measure me out a particle of peace, if it be but for five years, for you only are possessed of peace.

What have you suffered?

I am undone, having lost my two oxen.4

Where from?

The Bœotians took them off from Phyle.

Thrice miserable wretch! then are you dressed in white?5

And that too, certainly, by Jove, which used to keep me in all kinds of—cow-dung.1

Then what want you now?

I am ruined in my eyes2 with weeping for my oxen. But, if you have any regard for Dercetes of Phyle, anoint my eyes quickly with peace.

Nay, you rascal, I am not the public physician.

Come, I entreat you, if by any means I may recover my oxen.

It cannot be: weep to Pittalus’ apprentices.

At least3 drop for me one drop of peace into this little reed.

Not a fraction: go and lament some where.

Woe’s me, wretched man! for the oxen which tilled my ground! [Exit Husbandman.]

The man has found out something sweet in the peace, and does not seem about to give a share to any one.

Pour the honey on the sausage. Fry the cuttle-fish.

Did you hear his loud shoutings?

Fry the eels.

You will kill me with hunger, and your neighbours with savoury smells and bawling, if you shout in this way.

Roast these and brown them well.

Dicæopolis! Dicæpolis!

Who is this?

A bridegroom sent you these meats from the marriage-feast.

Well done he,4 whoever he was.

And he requested you to pour, on account of the meats, into his ointment-box one cyathus of peace, that he might not go on service, but might kiss his wife at home.

Take away, take away your meats, and give them not Edition: current; Page: [43] to me, for I would not pour in any for a thousand drachmæ. But who is this here?

The bridesmaid wants to say something to you in private from the bride.

Come now, what are you for saying? [Bridesmaid whispers in his ear.] How ridiculous, ye gods, is the request of the bride, which she earnestly asks of me, that the bridegroom may stay at home!1 Bring hither the peace, that I may give some to her alone, because she is a woman and not fit for war.—Woman, hold under here your ointment-box in this way. Do you know what ye are to make of this? Tell the bride, whenever they levy soldiers, let her by night anoint the bridegroom’s breeches with this. [Exeunt Paranymph and Bridesmaid.] Take away the peace. Bring the funnel, that I may take and pour some wine into the Pitchers.

And see! here’s some one hastening hither with his brows drawn up, as if about to announce something dreadful!

O! toils, and fights, and Lamachuses!

Who sounds around the mansion adorned with brass?

The generals2 ordered you to march to-day in haste with your companies and crests; and then, though snowed upon, to guard the passes. For some one has brought them word that Bœotian robbers would make3 an incursion on the approach of the feast of Pitchers and Pots. [Exit Herald.]

O generals more numerous than brave! Is it not hard that I should not be permitted even to celebrate the feast?

O warlike Lamachean Achaian host!

Ah me, miserable! you are mocking me now.1

Will2 you fight with a four-winged Geryon?

Alas! alas! what tidings has the crier announced to me!

Alas! alas! what tidings, in turn, is some one running up to announce to me?

Dicæopolis!

What is the matter?

Come to dinner quick, with your box and pitcher; for the priest of Bacchus sends for you. But make haste; you have delayed the dinner this long time. All the rest of the things are in readiness; couches, tables, cushions for the head, bedding, chaplets, ointment, sweetmeats, the courtesans are there, cakes of fine flour, cheese-cakes, sesame-cakes, honey-cakes, lovely dancing girls, Harmodius’s delight.3 But hasten as quick as possible. [Exit Messenger.]

Ill-fated me!

For you have4 chosen the Gorgon as your great patron. Shut the door, and let some one get ready the dinner.

Slave! slave! bring out my knapsack hither.

Slave! slave! bring out my box hither.

Bring salt flavoured with thyme, slave, and onions.

But slices of salt-fish for me, for I abominate onions.

Bring hither, slave, an5 olio of rancid salt-fish.

Bring me too an olio of fat; and I will roast it there.

Bring hither the two plumes from my helmet.

But for me bring the ring-doves, and the thrushes.

Beautiful, and white is the ostrich’s plume.

Beautiful, and yellow is the ring-dove’s flesh.

Fellow, cease scoffing at my equipment.

Fellow, will you not gaze at my thrushes?1

Bring out the crest-case for the three plumes.

And give me a little dish of hare’s flesh.

Verily the moths have eaten up my crests.

Verily I shall eat up the hare-soup before dinner.

Fellow, will you not address me?2

I am not addressing you; but I and the slave have been disputing this long time. Will you lay a wager, and give the decision to Lamachus, whether locusts or thrushes are the swecter?

Ah me, how you insult me!

(turning to the slave). He decides the locusts to be far sweeter.

Slave! slave! take down my spear and bring it out hither. [Slave brings him his spear.]

Slave! slave! do you draw off and bring the sausage hither. [Slave brings him the spit.]

Come, let me draw off the cover of my spear. Take hold, pull at it, slave.

And do you, slave, pull at this.3 [Offers the spit to pull at.]

Slave, bring the trestles for my shield.

And bring forth the baked bread for mine.4

Bring hither the orb of my shield with the Gorgon on its back.

And to me give the orb of my cheese-cake, with cheese on its back.

Is not this flat mockery for a man?

Is not this, pray, sweet cheese-cake for a man?

Slave, pour the oil over it. I see in the shield an old man about to be brought to trial on a charge of cowardice.

Pour over the honey. There too an old man is clearly seen bidding Lamachus, the son of Gorgasus,1 go weep.

Slave, bring hither my warrior breastplate.

For me too, slave, bring out my pitcher as a breast-plate.

In this I will arm myself against my foes.

In this I will arm myself against my boon-companions.

Slave, fasten my bedding to my shield.

Slave, fasten my dinner to my box.

But I’ll take and carry my knapsack for myself.

But I’ll take my coat and go out.

Take up the buckler, slave, and go with it. It snows. Bless me! ’Tis a stormy affair.

Take up the dinner. ’Tis a jolly affair. [Exeunt omnes.]

Go ye now to the warfare and joy be with ye! How different a journey you two are going! For the one, to drink crowned with chaplets; but for you, to shiver and keep watch: and for2 the other, to sleep with a most lovely girl, and enjoy himself.

May Jove, to speak plainly, miserably destroy Antimachus, the son of Sputter, the miserable composer of miserable songs, who, when Choregus at the Lenæa, dismissed me dinnerless, unhappy man! whom may I yet see longing for a cuttle-fish; and may it, when broiled, frizzling, ready salted, lying upon the table, run aground. And then, when he is about to seize it, may a bitch snatch it and run away. May this be one misfortune for him. And then may he have another by night. For as he is returning home, feverish after his horse-exercise, then let some drunken mad Orestes break his head; and may he, when wishing to seize a stone, in the dark seize with his hand a newly-born Sir-reverence; and may he rush Edition: current; Page: [47] out with the shining lump, and then miss his aim and hit Cratinus.

Servants,1 who are in the house of Lamachus, heat water, water in a little pot, get ready linen, cerate, greasy wool, a bandage to go round his ancle. The hero has been wounded with a vine-prop in leaping over a trench, and has dislocated his ancle, so as to be twisted; and has broken his head by having fallen upon a stone, and roused the Gorgon from his shield. And as the mighty plume of the big-boaster fell2 upon the rocks, he uttered a doleful strain: “O thou bright luminary, now having seen you for the last time I leave the light: I am no more.” When he had said thus much,3 having fallen into a sewer, he gets up again, and meets with some runaways, driving and urging on the plunderers with his spear. But see! here’s the man himself! Come, open the door. [Exit Messenger.]

Attatai! attatai! These hateful and chilling sufferings! Wretched man, I am undone, struck by the spear of the enemy! But that would be lamentable for me—Dicæopolis4 may see me wounded; and then he will laugh at my misfortunes.

Attatai! attatai! What breasts! How firm and plump! Kiss me softly, my little treasures, with a wanton and Edition: current; Page: [48] lascivious kiss; for I am the first man who drank up his pitcher.

O the unhappy calamity of my woes! alas! alas! my painful wounds!

Hurra! Hurra! Hail, Knight Lamachus!

Ah me, distressed!

Ah me, oppressed!

Why do you kiss me?

Why do you bite me?

Ah me, unhappy man! for the grievous shot!

Why, did ever any one exact a shot1 at the feast of Pitchers?

Oh! oh! Pæan! Pæan!2

But the Pæonia are not celebrating now3 to-day.

Take hold of me, take hold of my leg. O dear, take hold, my friends.

And do you, both of you, take hold of me by the middle, my sweets.

I am dizzy from the blow of a stone on my head, and inclined to vertigo.

I too wish to sleep, and am stiff, and inclined to a dirty go.

Carry me out of doors to the house of Pittalus for his healing hands.4

Carry me forth to the judges. Where is the king?1 Pay me the wine-skin.

An afflicting spear is fixed through my bones.

Behold this empty! Huzza! victorious!

Huzza! then, victorious! if, old man, you call so.

And moreover, too, I poured in pure wine, and quaffed it at one draught.

Huzza! then, noble fellow; go with your wine-skin.

Follow then, and sing “Huzza! victorious!”

Well, for your sake, we will follow, and sing of you and of your wine-skin, “Huzza! victorious!” [Exeunt omnes.]

What’s the matter? Why do you call me?

Come hither, that you may learn how fortunate you are, and how great is your bliss. [Sausage-seller comes up.]

Come now, take away his dresser, and expound6 unto Edition: current; Page: [60] him the oracle itself of the god, how it runs; while I will go and watch the Paphlagonian. [Exit Nicias.]

1Come now, first lay down your implements on the ground, and then adore the earth, and the gods.

Well! what’s the matter?

O happy, O wealthy man! O thou who art to-day a nobody, but to-morrow immensely great! O thou ruler of happy Athens!2

My good sir, why don’t you let me wash my puddings, and sell my sausages, and not make game3 of me?

O foolish man, what4 puddings? Look here! Do you see the rows of people there?

I see them.

Of all these you shall be alone the chief, and of the market-place, and of the harbours, and of the Pnyx. You shall trample on the senate, and humble the generals; you shall imprison, put under ward, and in the Prytaneum you shall—wench.5

What I?

Aye, you; and you do not yet see all. But mount up even upon this dresser here,6 and survey all the islands round about. [Sausage-seller mounts up upon his dresser.]

I see them.

What then? the marts and merchant ships?

Yes.

How then are you not greatly blessed? Further now, turn your right eye to Caria, and your other to Chalcedon.7

Shall I be blest if I squint?

No but through you all these are on1 sale; for you shall become, as this oracle here asserts, a very great man.

Tell me; why, how shall I who am a sausage-seller become a great man?

For this very reason,2 truly, shall you even become great; because you are a knave, and from the market-place, and impudent.

I do not consider myself worthy to have great power.

Alas! whatever’s the reason that you say you are not worthy? You seem to me to be conscious of something gentlemanly. Are you of gentle birth?3

No, by the gods, unless4 to come of blackguards be so.

O happy in your fortune! What an advantage5 you have for statesmanship!

But, my good sir, I don’t even possess any education, beyond my letters, and them, to be sure, as bad6 as bad can be.

This alone is an obstacle to you, that you do know them, even as bad as bad can be. For the character of popular leader no longer belongs to a man of education, nor yet to one good in his morals, but7 to the ignorant and abominable. Then don’t neglect what the gods in their oracles offer you.

How, pray, does the oracle speak?

Well, by the gods, and ambiguously, in a way, and learnedly wrapped in riddles. “But when the leather-eagle with crooked claws shall seize in his beak a serpent, a stupid fellow, a drinker of blood, just then8 the garlic-pickle of the Paphlagonians is at an end, while to the sellers of puddings the god grants great glory, unless they choose rather to sell sausages.”

How then does this relate to me? Instruct me.

This Paphlagonian here is the “leather-eagle.”

Why is he “with crooked claws?”

It means, I ween, that he snatches and takes away with his hands curved.1

But what’s the import of the “serpent?”

This is very clear; for the “serpent” is long, and the “sausage” again is long: then both the sausage2 and the serpent are “drinkers of blood.” It says, therefore, that the serpent shall immediately conquer the leather-eagle,3 unless it be cajoled with words.

The oracles please me: but I wonder how I am able to manage the people.

A very easy affair! Act as you act now; jumble and mince together all state-affairs, and always win over the people to your side, coaxing it with little cookish words. But the other requisites for a demagogue you possess—a foul tongue, you are of vulgar birth, a low fellow; you possess all things which are requisite for statesmanship. The oracles and the Delphic shrine conspire in your favour. Crown yourself then, and offer a libation to Dulness, and see that you punish the fellow.4

And who will be my ally? for the rich fear him, and the poor people are afraid of him.

But there are a thousand brave knights5 who hate him, who will aid you, and the well-born citizens, and of the spectators whoever is a clever man, and I along with them, and the god will6 assist you. And do not fear, for he is not represented by a likeness; for, through fear, none of the mask-makers7 was willing to make a likeness of him. Nevertheless, Edition: current; Page: [63] he will be certainly recognised; for the audience is clever.1

Ah me, miserable! the Paphlugonian is coming forth.

By the twelve gods, you certainly shall not go unpunished, in that you have been long conspiring together against the democracy. What’s this Chalcidian cup doing here? You are certainly causing a revolt of the Chalcidians.2 You shall perish, you shall die, you brace of rogues. [Sausage-seller runs out.]

Ho you! why do you fly? will you not stop? O noble sausage-seller, do not betray the cause! O ye Knights,3 support us! Now’s the time! Simon,4 Panætius, will you not ride to the right wing? [To the Sausage-seller.] The men are near; come, resist him, and return to the charge again! Their dust shows that they5 are approaching in a body. Come, resist, and pursue, and put him to flight. [Enter Chorus of Knights.]

Strike, strike the villain, and troubler of the Knights, and publican, and sink, and Charybdis of plunder, and villain, and villain; for I will use the same expressions many times. For this fellow was a villain many times in the day.—Come, strike, and pursue, and disturb, and confound, and detest him,6 for we do so; and press on him, and shout aloud. But take care, lest he escape you, for he knows the paths by which Eucrates fled straight to the bran.7

Veteran Heliasts, clansmen of the three-obol-piece, whom I feed by bawling right or wrong, come to the rescue, since I am being beaten by conspirators.

Aye, with justice; since you devour1 the public goods before they are distributed by lot, and you press and squeeze those under account, seeing which of them is green, or ripe, or not yet ripe; and if you perceive any of them to be an easy quiet man, and a gaper, you recall him from the Chersonese2 and seize him by the waist and lock him;3 and then having twisted back his shoulder, you fall heavily upon him. And you observe, too, which of the citizens is a simpleton, and rich, and no rascal, and fearing state-affairs.

Do you join in attacking me? while I am beaten, sirs, on your account, because I was intending to deliver an opinion, that it is proper to erect in the city a memorial on account of your valcur.4

What5 an impostor! what a supple knave! You see how he fawns upon us as if we were old dotards, and cajoles us. But if in this way he be victorious, he shall be beaten in that; and if he dodge this way,6 my leg shall strike him.

O city and people, by what beasts am I punched in the belly!

What! do you cry out, who are ever turning the city upside down? [Re-enter Sausage-seller.]

But with this shout I will first put you to flight.

If, in truth, you conquer him in bawling,1 you are a conqueror; but if you surpass him in impudence, ours is the meed of victory.2

I inform against this fellow, and assert that he exports broths3 for the Peloponnesian triremes.

Aye,4 by Jove, and I inform against this man, that he ran into the Prytaneum with his belly empty, and then runs out again with it full.

Yes, by Jove, bearing out forbidden exports, bread and meat at the same time, and sliced salt-fish, of which Pericles was never at any time thought worthy.

You shall die forthwith.

I will shout three times as loud as you.

I will silence you with bawling.

I will scream you down with screaming.

I will calumniate you if you be general.

I will beat your back like a dog.5

I will harass you with impostures.6

I will cut off your roads.

Look at me without winking.

I too have been reared in the market-place.

I will tear you in pieces if you mutter at all.

I will cover you with dung if you speak.

I confess myself a thief, while you do not.

Aye, that do I, by Mercury, who presides over the market-place, and perjure myself too, though men see it.

Then you play the sophist in another’s province, and I will impeach you to the Prytanes for possessing untithed puddings sacred to the gods.1

O rascally and abominable, and bawler! every land is full of thy audacity, and every assembly, and imposts, and indictments, and law-courts. O thou mud-stirrer, and having disturbed2 our whole state, who hast deafened our Athens with thy bawling, and watching for the tribute-money, like tunny-fish, from the rocks above.3

I know this affair, whence it has been long ago getting cobbled up.4

If you do not know shoe-soles, neither do I sausages; you who cheatingly-cut-up and sold the hide of a diseased ox to the country people, with fraudulent design, so that it should seem stout; and before they had worn it a day, it was greater than the foot by two spans.5

By Jove, he did the very same thing to me too, so that I also afforded much mirth to my fellow-tribesmen and Edition: current; Page: [67] friends; for, ere that I had reached Pergasæ,1 I was swimming in my shoes.

Have you not, pray, from the first, displayed impudence,2 which alone is the guardian of orators? on which you relying, drain the wealthy foreigners, you the first; while the son of Hippodamus3 melts into tears at the sight. But indeed another fellow much more rascally than you has showed himself, so that I rejoice, who will immediately put an end to you and surpass you, as he plainly shows, in villany and impudence and knavish tricks. [To the Sausage-seller.] But come, you who have been educated4 whence men arise, such as they are,5 now demonstrate that “Modest Education” is nothing to the purpose.

Well now, hear what sort of a citizen this fellow is.

Will you not in turn permit me?

No, by Jove, since I too am a blackguard.

If he do not yield in this point, say that you are also come of blackguards.

Will you not in turn permit me?

No, by Jove.

Yes, by Jove, you shall.

No, by Neptune, but I will fight it out first, with respect to who shall speak first.

Alas, I shall burst.

But I will not permit you.

Permit him, by the gods, permit him to burst.

Relying1 on what do you dare to speak against me?

Because I too am able to speak, and to make a rich sauce.

“To speak,” quoth’a! Finely,2 upon my word, would you take up and properly handle a case which fell to you, so as to be torn in pieces raw.3 But do you know how you seem to me to be circumstanced? Like the mass.⁴ If you have any where pleaded some little suit well against a resident-alien, babbling the live-long night, and talking to yourself in the streets, and drinking water, and showing yourself off, and boring your friends, you fancied you were a a dab at oratory—Fool for your folly!

By drinking what, pray, have you worked upon the city, so as now to be silent, having been talked down by you alone?

Why, do you match any man against me? who, immediately after I have devoured hot slices of the tunny-fish, and then drank besides a gallon of neat wine, will abuse like a strumpet the generals at Pylos.

And I, after I have swallowed down a cow’s paunch and a pig’s belly, and then drank the broth besides, without washing, will throttle1 the orators, and terrify Nicias.

You please me in the rest of your words; but one part of your conduct does not please me, in that you will gulp down your broth alone.

But you will not distract the Milesians, after having devoured a sea-wolf.2

Nay, but when I have devoured ribs3 of beef, I will farm the mines.

And I will spring into the senate and confound it with violence.

And I will kick your rump instead of a foot-ball.4

And I will drag you out of doors, head foremost, by the crupper.

By Neptune, you shall drag me too, if you drag him.

How I will fasten you in the stocks!

I will prosecute you for cowardice.

Your hide5 shall be tanned.

I will flay you for a thief’s pouch.6

You shall be stretched out on the ground with pegs.

I will make mince-meat of you.

I will pluck out your eye-lashes.

I will cut out your crop.7

And, by Jove, we will put a skewer into his mouth, in cook’s fashion, and then draw out his tongue from within, and examine his inside well and manfully, while he gapes, if it be pimply.

It appears, then, there are other things hotter that fire; and in our state words more shameless than the shameless;1 and the affair, then, not so trifling a one. But attack him, and twist him about; do nothing in a small way: for now he is held by the middle. Since if now you hide2 him in the onset, you will find him a craven; for I know his disposition.

Yet, nevertheless, this fellow, though he has been such a one during the whole of his life, then3 appeared to be a hero, when he reaped the harvest of another. And now he has bound in the wooden collar, and is drying, and wishing to sell those ears of corn which he brought from thence.

I fear you not as long as the senate subsists, and the face of Demus4 remains stolid.

What impudence he has for every thing! and changes nothing of his present5 colour! If I do not hate you, may I become a sheep-skin of Cratinus,6 and may I be taught to sing the songs in a tragedy of Morsimus.7

O thou, who on every occasion, and in all cases of bribery,1 settlest upon flowers, would that you’d disgorge the mouthful as easily as you found it; for then would I sing only, “drink,2 drink, at the happy event;” and I fancy the son of Julius, an aged ogler of wheat,3 being delighted, would cry, “Io Pæan,” and sing, “Bacchus, Bacchus!”

By Neptune, ye certainly shall not surpass me in impudence; or never may I be present at the sacrificial feast of Jupiter, who presides over the market-place.

By the thumps, which I have many times,4 indeed, and on many occasions, endured from my childhood, and by the strokes of the knives, I fancy I shall surpass you in these, or to no purpose should I be grown to this size by feeding on finger-muffins.5

On finger-muffins, like a dog? O thou most villanous, how then, fed on dog’s meat, shall you battle with a dog-faced baboon?

And, by Jove, there are other knavish tricks of mine, too, when I was a child; for I used to deceive the butchers by saying such words, “Look, boys! do you not see? early spring is come. There’s a swallow!” They looked, and I in the mean time used to steal some meat.6

O most clever meat! shrewdly did you plan beforehand! You stole before the swallows, as if eating nettles.1

And I used to escape notice too, when doing this. At any rate, if any of them were to see me, I used to hide it in my drawers, and deny it upon oath of the gods, so that an orator,2 having seen me doing this, exclaimed, “This boy will certainly rule the people.”

Aye, he conjectured it well: but it is clear from what he drew his inference; because you perjured yourself after stealing, and your drawers had the meat.

I will make you cease from your impudence,—or rather, I fancy, both of you: for I will issue forth against you, coming down3 now fresh and mighty, confounding at the same time both land and sea at random.

And I will furl my sausages and then commit myself to the favouring waves,4 having bid you a long farewell.

And I, if it leak at all, will watch the bilge-water.

By Ceres, you certainly shall not go off unpunished, after having stolen many talents of the Athenians.

Look sharp, and slack away the sheet!5 since now this north-easter is even blowing informations.

I well know that you have ten talents from Potidæa.

What then? Will you take one of the talents, and hold your tongue?

The man would gladly take it. Let out your sail-ropes.

The wind is lulling.

You shall be a defendant in four suits of a hundred talents.1

And you in twenty for shunning service, and in more than a thousand for theft.

I assert that you are descended from those who offended against the goddess.2

I assert that your grandfather was one of the body-guards.

What body-guards? Explain.

Of Byrsina, the mother of Hippias.3

You are an impudent rogue.

You are a villain.

Strike manfully. [They all fall on him and beat him.]

Alas! alas! The conspirators are beating me.

Strike him most manfully, and punch him in the belly, both with your guts and with your tripe, and see that you punish the fellow. O thou most noble bit of flesh, and bravest of all in soul, and who hast appeared4 a saviour of the state, and of us the citizens, how well and cunningly with your words you supplanted the fellow! Would I could praise thee as much as we are delighted.5

By Ceres, these transactions did not escape my notice in the carpentering, but I was aware of them all in the nailing and the gluing.6

(turning to the Sausage-seller). Alas! can you talk nought of cart-wright’s7 slang!

Then what he is doing at Argos does not escape me. In pretence he is making the Argives1 our friends, but secretly he is there treating with the Lacedæmonians. And I know for what purpose this is getting welded; for it is getting forged on account of the prisoners.2

Bravo! bravo! Forge in return for his gluings.3

And in return4 men from thence join in welding it; and neither by giving silver or gold, or by sending friends, shall you persuade me, so that I shall not denounce these things to the Athenians.

I therefore will go forthwith to the senate, and tell them of the conspiracies of you all, and your nightly meetings in the city, and all that ye are plotting with the Medes5 and the king of Persia, and these transactions which are being concocted amongst the Bœotians.6

What, then, is the price of cheese among the Bœotians?7

By Hercules, I will lay you flat! [Exit Cleon.]

Come now, what mind, or what spirits have you?1 Now you shall show, if formerly you concealed the meat in your drawers, as you yourself assert. For you must run in haste into the senate-house, since this fellow will rush in thither, and calumniate us all, and bawl aloud.

Well, I will go: but first I will lay down my puddings and my knives here, just as I am.

Stop now, anoint your neck with this, that you may be able to slip out of his calumnies. [Hands him a flask of oil.]

Well, you say this well, and like a gymnastic master.

Stop now, take and eat up this. [Hands him a head of garlic.]

Why, pray?

In order that you may fight the better, my friend, having been primed with garlic. And now2 hasten quickly.

I do so.

Remember now to bite, to libel, to eat up his crests; and see that you come back again, having devoured his wattles. But go, and joy3 be with you, and may you succeed according to my wish, and may Jove, who presides over the market-place, protect you; and when you have conquered, may you come back again to us from thence besprinkled with chaplets. [Exit Sausage-seller.] Do ye, on the other hand, give your attention to our anapæsts, O ye, who of yourselves4 have already essayed every kind of learning.

O dearest and stoutest of men, how much anxiety in your absence have you given us! And now, since you have come back safe, tell us how you contested the matter.

What else,8 but that I became conqueror of the senate?

Now, then, it is meet for all to shout for joy. O thou who speakest noble words, but hast done deeds still far superior to your words! would that you would go over all the details clearly to me! since methinks I would9 even travel a long journey, so as to hear.—Wherefore, my good sir, speak with confidence, since we all are delighted with you.

Well now, ’tis worth while to hear the circumstances: for I rushed directly after him from hence. He then within Edition: current; Page: [81] making words break forth, hurled like thunder, was hurling them at the Knights, playing the marvellous, blurting out precipices, and calling1 them conspirators most plausibly; while the whole Senate, listening to him, got crammed by him with false-orach, and looked mustard,2 and contracted their brows. And I, just when I perceived that they were approving3 of his words, and deceived by his impositions—“Come now, ye Lechers, and Impostors,” said I, “and Boobies, and mischievous Goblins, and God of Impudence, and thou Market-place, in which I was educated when a child, now give me impudence, and a ready tongue, and a shameless voice.” As I was musing thus, a lewd fellow broke wind on my right; and I did reverence.4 Then with my buttocks I struck and broke the barriers, and gaping wide, shouted aloud, “O Senate, I bring you good news, and wish to announce the glad tidings first to you. For since what time the war broke out, I never at any time saw anchovies cheaper.” Immediately they made their faces quite calm, and then were for crowning me for the good news. And I having hastily invented a secret plan, in order that they might purchase the anchovies in great numbers for an obol, told them to seize the dishes of the artificers.5 And they applauded vehemently, and gaped at me. So he, the Paphlagonian, having perceived it, and knowing in what speeches the Senate most delights, made a proposal: “Sirs, I now move, that on the occasion of the happy events which have been announced to us, we sacrifice a hundred oxen6 to the goddess for the good news.” Again Edition: current; Page: [82] the Senate inclined towards him. And I, just when I perceived I was overcome by the ox-dung, overshot him with two hundred oxen;1 and advised to make a vow to sacrifice a thousand goats to Diana on the morrow, if sprats went at a hundred for the obol. Again the Senate looked eagerly at me. And when he heard this, being struck with astonishment, babbled nonsense; and then the Prytanes and the Police began to drag him out, while they stood and wrangled about the anchovies. But he besought them “to wait a short time, in order that you may hear2 what the herald from Lacedæmon says, for he has come treating of peace.” But they all cried out with one mouth,—“Now do they talk of peace? Aye, poor fool, since they have heard that anchovies are cheap with us. We don’t want peace; let the war go on.” And they shouted that the Prytanes should dismiss the assembly. Then they leaped over the barriers in every direction. While I slipped out and bought up all the coriander-seed, and the leeks, as much as there was in the market: and then gave it gratis to them who were in want, as seasoning to the anchovies, and made presents of it. So they all praised me above measure, and caressed me to such a degree, that I have come, having gained over the whole senate for an obol-worth3 of coriander-seed.

Of a truth you have acted in every respect4 as becomes a man favoured of fortune. The villain has found another adorned with much greater rascalities and artful deceits and wily words. But take care that you contest what remains in the best manner possible; and you know long ago that you have us as your friendly allies.

Well now, see! here comes1 the Paphlagonian, pushing a heavy wave, and disturbing and confounding, as if, forsooth, he was going to swallow me up. A fig for his courage!2

If I do3 not destroy you, provided any of the same lies be in me, may I utterly fail in every way.

I like your threats,4 laugh at your empty bluster, dance a fling, and cry cuckoo all round.

By Ceres, if I do not eat you up out of this land, I will certainly never survive.

“If you do not eat me up?” And neither will I, if I do not drink you up, and then gulp you down and burst after it myself.5

By the precedence which I gained at Pylos, I will destroy you.

“Precedence,” quoth’a! How I shall behold you6 after your precedence a spectator on the last bench!

By heaven, I will fasten you in the stocks!

How choleric you are! Come, what shall I give you Edition: current; Page: [84] to eat? With what sauce would you like best to eat it? With a purse?1

I will tear out your entrails with my nails.

I will tear with my nails your maintenance in the Prytaneum.2

I will drag you before Demus, that you may give me satisfaction.

And I will also drag you and calumniate you more.

But he does not believe you at all, you wretch, while I laugh at him as much as I please.

How completely you imagine Demus to be yours!

For I know with what pap he is fattened.3

And then, like nurses,4 you feed him grudgingly. For you chew and put a little into his mouth, while you yourself swallow down three times as much as he.

And, by Jove, by my dexterity I am able to make Demus fat or lean.5

And my posteriors are clever at this.

You shan’t fancy, my good sir, you’re going to insult me in the Senate.6 Let us go to Demus.

There’s nothing to hinder1 us. There, go, let nothing detain us.

O Demus! come forth hither.

O father, by Jupiter, pray come forth.

Come forth, O dearest little Demus, that you may know how I am wantonly insulted [They both go and knock at Demus’ door.]

Who are those that are bawling? Will you not depart from my door? You have torn down my harvest-wreath.2 Who’s injuring you, my Paphlagonian?

I am beat on your account by this fellow here, and by these striplings.

Wherefore?

Because I love you, Demus, and am your admirer.

(turning to the Sausage-seller). Pray, who are you?

This man’s rival in love, who have loved you this long time, and wished to do you a good turn, and so have many other gentlemen. But we are not able, on account of this fellow. For you are like unto youths who have lovers: gentlemen you do not receive, but give yourself up to lamp-sellers3 and coblers and shoemakers and tanners.

For I benefit the people.

Say now, by doing what?

Because I deceived the generals at Pylos and sailed thither and brought the Lacedæmonians.

And I, while walking about,4 stole the pot from a workshop, while another was boiling it.

Well now, Demus, convene an assembly forthwith, in order that you may know which of us two is better inclined to you, and decide between us, that you may love this one.

Yes, yes, do decide between us, pray! but not in the Pnyx.

I can’t sit in any other place. But you must come forwards to the Pnyx.5

Ah me, miserable man, how I am undone! for the old fellow, when at home, is the shrewdest of men, but when he takes his seat upon this here stone, he gapes1 as if he were stringing figs.

Now it behoves you to let out every rope,2 and to carry an impetuous spirit and arguments, admitting no escape, wherewith you shall overcome him: for the man is crafty, and devises efficient contrivances out of impracticable ones.3 Wherefore take care that you go forth vehement and fresh4 against the man. But be on your guard, and ere he comes up to you, do you first raise aloft5 your dolphins, and put forward your pinnace.

I pray to our mistress Minerva, who rules over our city, that, if I am the best man towards the Athenian people, next to Lysicles,6 and Cynna, and Salabaccho, I may, as now, dine in the Prytaneum, without having done any thing for it. But if I hate you, and do not fight for you, singly standing in the gap, may I perish, and be sawn in two, and cut up into yoke-straps.7

And may I, Demus, if I do not love you, and do not admire you, be cut up and cooked in mince-meat; and if you do not put faith in this, may I be grated down upon this dresser in an olio with cheese, and with the flesh-hook may I be dragged to the Ceramicus by my testicles.

Why, how1 can there be a citizen, Demus, who loves you more than I do? who in the first place, when I was a senator, collected very much money in the treasury, by torturing some, strangling others, and begging of others; not caring for any private man, provided I gratified you.

This, Demus, is no way grand; for I will do this to you. For I will snatch away and serve up to you other people’s loaves.2 But I will first teach you this very thing, that he neither loves you, nor is well-disposed towards you, except on account of this very thing, that he enjoys your fire-side. For he does not care about your sitting so uncomfortably upon the rocks, who fought to the death with the Persians at Marathon for our country, and when victorious, permitted us to bepraise it mightily.3 Not like me, who have sewed and brought you this cushion. Come, raise yourself, and then sit down at your ease, that you may not gall that which fought at Salamis.4 [Slips a soft cushion under Demus.]

Man, who are you? Are you a son of those well-known5 descendants of Harmodius! Certainly, indeed, this deed of yours is truly noble and patriotic.

From what petty bits of flattery have you become well-disposed towards him!

For you also caught him with baits much less than these.

Well now, I am willing to wager my head, if any Edition: current; Page: [88] where there hath appeared a man who fights more for the people, or loves you more than I.

Why, how love you him? who, though you see him dwelling for the eighth year1 in the casks and crannies and little turrets, do not pity him, but shut him in and plunder his hive. And when Archeptolemus2 was offering peace, you scattered it abroad; and you drive away the embassies from the city, slapping them on the buttocks, who make proposals of peace.

Aye, that he may rule over all the Greeks; for it is in the oracles, “that this man must some time or other act the Heliast in Arcadia at3 five obols a day, if he bide his time.” At all events, I will nourish and tend him, finding out by fair means or foul, whence he shall receive the three obols.

Not taking thought, by Jove, that he may rule over Arcadia, but that you may plunder the more, and receive bribes from the cities; and that Demus, by reason of the war and the mist, may not observe your knavish tricks,4 but through necessity, at the same time, and need, and pay, may gape at you. But if ever he return to the country and spend his time in peace,5 and eat his toasted groats and regain his courage, and come to a conversation with oil-cake, he will perceive what blessings you swindled him out of by your system of pay; and then he will come against you fierce and rough, searching for a pebble against you. Of which being aware, you impose upon him, and cheat6 him by dreams about yourself.

Is it not then, pray, a shameful thing that you should say this of me, and calumniate me before the Athenians and Demus, who have already, by Ceres, done far more good services to the state than Themistocles?

“O city of Argos, hear what he says.”1 Do you match yourself with Themistocles? who made our city full, when he found it up to the brim, and in addition to this kneaded up the Piræus beside for it while it was at breakfast,2 and having taken away nothing of the old, set before it new fishes.—But you sought to make the Athenians citizens of a petty town,3 by dividing the town4 with a wall, and uttering oracles, you who match yourself with Themistocles! And he is an exile from his country, while you wipe your hands on cakes of fine barley.5

Is it not then a shameful thing, O Demus, that I should be called these names by this fellow, because I love you?

Stop, stop,6 you fellow, and don’t talk Billingsgate. For much too long a time and even now have you been acting underhand without my knowing it.7

He is a most abominable fellow, my little Demus, and one who commits very many knavish tricks, whenever you Edition: current; Page: [90] yawn;1 and he crops the stalks of those under account and swallows them down, and with both hands ladles out the public money.

You shall not escape with impunity, but I will convict you of stealing thirty thousand drachmæ.

Why do you make much ado about nothing, and make a splash, you who are most abominable towards the Athenian people?2 And, by Ceres, I will prove,3 or may I not live, that you have received as a bribe more than forty minæ from Mitylene.

O thou who hast appeared the greatest advantage to all men!4 I envy you for your fluency of speech; for if you shall attack him in this way, you will be the greatest of the Greeks, and alone will bear sway in the city, and rule over the allies, having a trident, shaking and disturbing,5 with which you will make much money. And do not let the man go, since he has given you a hold, for you will easily make an end of him, with such sides as yours.

These matters, good sirs, are not yet come to this, by Neptune; for I have wrought such a work, so as to curb my enemies every one,6 so long as any thing is left of the bucklers captured at Pylos.

Stop at your bucklers, for you have given me a handle. For you ought not, if indeed you love the people, purposely to have let them be dedicated together with the handles. But this, Demus, is a device, that, if you wish to punish this fellow here, it may not be in your power; for you see what a troop of young tanners are with him; and around these dwell sellers of honey and sellers of cheese. Now this body is leagued together; so that if you were to snort with anger, and look ostracism,1 they would pull down the bucklers by night, and run and seize the entrances for importing your barley.

Ah me, miserable man! Why, have2 they handles? You rascal, how long a time you have been cheating me, deluding me in such a manner!

My good sir, be not led3 away by every speaker, nor think that you will ever find a better friend than I, who with my single hand put down the conspirators. And no conspiracy arises in the city without my perceiving it, but I bawl out that instant.

For you are circumstanced like those who fish for eels.4 When the lake is still, they catch nothing; but if they stir the mud up and down, they take. And you catch, if you disturb the city. But just answer me this single question: though you sell so many hides, have you ever5 given to this man here a sole from your private stock for his slippers, you who profess to love him?

Certainly not, by Apollo.

Then have you perceived, pray, what sort of a fellow he is? But I have bought this pair of shoes for you, and give them you to wear. [Gives him a pair of shoes.]

I judge you to be the best man towards the people of all I know, and very well disposed towards the city, and towards my toes.

Is it not then, pray, a shameful thing that slippers should have so much power, and that you should have no recollection of all the kind offices I have done you? who put a stop to the lewd people, having utterly destroyed Gryttus.

Is it not then, pray, a shameful thing that you should watch them so,1 and put a stop to the lewd people? It must be that through envy you stopped them, lest they might become orators. And though you saw this man without a tunic at his time of life, you never at any time deemed Demus worthy of a sleeved-coat, though it were winter. But I present you with this one here. [Gives him a coat.]

Themistocles never once thought of such a device. And yet that device of his, too, was a clever one, his Piræus. Yet, however, it does not appear to me to be a greater contrivance than the coat.

Ah me, miserable man! with what jackanape’s tricks you harass me!

Not so; but as is the case with a man in liquor when nature calls, I am using your manners2 as I would your slippers.

You shall not surpass me in flattery, for I will put this on him besides. [Turning to the Sausage-seller.] A plague take you, you rascal!

Bah! will you not be gone, with a plague to you? smelling most abominably of the tan-yard.3

And on purpose, too, was he for putting this around Edition: current; Page: [93] you, that he may smother you. And before this he plotted against you. Do you know that stalk of silphium,1 which became so cheap?

To be sure I know.

On purpose this fellow was anxious for it to be cheap, that you might buy and eat, and then the dicasts might kill each other2 in the Heliæa with fizzling.

By Neptune, a stinkard also told this to me.3

Is it not the case that ye then became red with blushes with fizzling?

Aye, by Jove, this device was one of Pyrrandrus’s.

With what ribaldry you worry me, you villain!

For the goddess bade me conquer you with quackery.

But you shall not conquer me. For I promise, O Demus, to supply you with a bowl of pay to gulp down,4 for doing nothing.

But I give you a gallipot and ointment, to smear over the slight sores on your shins. [Presents them.]

I will pluck out your grey hairs and make you a young man.

(offering a hare’s scut). There, take a hare’s scut5 to wipe your two little eyes.

After you have blown your nose, Demus, wipe your fingers upon my head.

Nay rather, upon mine.

Nay rather, upon mine. [Demus bestows his dirty preference on the Sausage-seller.] I will6 cause you to be a Edition: current; Page: [94] trierarch expending your own money, with an old vessel, upon which you will never cease spending money or making repairs. And I will contrive that you get a rotten sail.

The1 man is bubbling up. Stop, stop boiling over. We must drag from beneath him some of the firebrands, and skim off some of the threats with this here ladle.

You shall give me proper satisfaction,2 being pressed down by my taxes, for I will exert myself that you may be enrolled among the rich.3

I will utter no threats; but I wish you the following: that your frying-pan of cuttle-fish may stand over the fire frizzling, and that you, about to move a decree concerning the Milesians,4 and to gain a talent if you effect your object, may hasten to fill yourself with the5 cuttle-fish before you go to the assembly; and then, before you’ve eaten them, may a man come to fetch you, and may you, wishing to get the talent, be choked with eating.

Capital! by Jove! by Apollo! by Ceres!

To me also he appears to be manifestly in other respects, too, a good citizen, such as no man has ever been for a long time towards the three-halfpenny mobocracy.6 While Edition: current; Page: [95] you, Paphlagonian, who say you love me, have garlicked me.1 And now give me back my ring, as you shall no longer be my steward.

Take it: but know thus much, that if you will not permit me to be overseer, some other again more villanous than I will appear.

It is not possible that this ring is mine. At all events, the device appears different, unless2 I do not see distinctly.

Come, let me see. What was your device?

A roasted olio of bull’s fat.3

There is not this in it.

Not the olio? What then?4

A gaping cormorant haranguing upon a rock.5

Alas, miserable man!

What is the matter?

Take it out of the way: he had not mine, but that of Cleonymus.6 But do you receive this from me, and be my steward.

Not yet, pray, O master, I entreat you, until you hear my oracles.

And mine then.

But if you accede to this fellow, you must become a mere hide.7

And if to this man, you must become completely circumcised.

But mine say that you must rule over8 every country, crowned with roses.

While mine, on the other hand, say, that with an embroidered purple robe and a diadem you shall pursue in a chariot of gold Smicythe1 and her husband.

Well now, go and bring them, that this2 man here may hear them.

Certainly.

And do you then bring yours.

Very well.3

Very well, by Jove: there’s nothing to hinder you.4 [Cleon and the S. S. hurry out.]

Most sweet will be the light of day to all those present, and to those who are5 coming, if Cleon perish. And yet I heard some very crabbed6 old fellows disputing in the Law Exchange,7 that if this fellow had not become great in the state, there would not have been two useful utensils, a pestle8 or a ladle. But this also I wonder at in his swinish musical taste; for the boys who went to school with him say that he constantly adapted his lyre to the Dorian9 mode alone, and was not willing to learn any other. And then, that the harp-master,10 being enraged, gave orders to take him away, “since this youth is not able to learn any mode, except the Bribery-mode.” [Re-enter Cleon and S. S., both heavily laden with papers.]

There, see! and yet I bring not all out!

Ah me, how I want to ease myself, and yet I bring not all out.

What are these?

Oracles.

All?

Do you wonder? By Jove, I have still a chest full.

And I have an upper-room and two out-houses full.

Come, let me see: why, whose in the world are the oracles?

Mine are Bacis’s.1

And whose are yours?

Glanis’s, elder brother of Bacis.

What are they about?

About Athens, about Pylos, about you, about me, about every thing.

And what are yours about?

About Athens, about lentil-broth, about the Lacedæmonians, about fresh mackerel, about those who measure their barley unfairly in the market-place, about you, about me.—May this here fellow tumble and tread on his nose!

Come now, see that you read them to me, and that notable2 one about me, with which I am delighted, “That I shall become an eagle3 in the clouds.”

Hear now, and give me your attention. [Unrolls his papers.] “Son of Erectheus, take heed of the way of the oracles,4 which Apollo uttered for you from the sanctuary by means of highly-prized tripods. He ordered you to preserve the sacred dog5 with jagged teeth, who by snarling in your Edition: current; Page: [98] defence and barking dreadfully in your behalf, will provide you pay; and if he do not this, he will perish. For many daws, through hatred, croak at him.”

By Ceres, I do not know what these things mean. For what has Erectheus1 to do with jackdaws and a dog?

I am the dog, for I howl in your defence, and Phœbus ordered you to preserve me, your dog.

The oracle does not say this, but this here dog gnaws at the oracles, as he does your door. For I have it correctly about this dog.2

Read it, then: but first I’ll take a stone, lest the oracle about the dog bite me.3

“Beware, son of Erectheus, of the kidnapping dog Cerberus, who, fawning upon you with his tail, watching when you are dining, will consume your victuals, whenever you gape any other way: and he will often go secretly into your kitchen4 by night, like a dog, and lick clean your plates and islands.”

Far better, O Glanis, by Neptune!5

Good sir, hear, and then decide:—“There is a woman, and she shall bring forth a lion in sacred Athens, who in behalf of the people shall fight with many gnats, as if defending6 his whelps. Him do thou guard, having made a wooden wall and iron towers.”7 Do you know what these mean?

By Apollo, not I.

The god clearly ordered you to preserve me. For I am in the place of the lion to you.

Why, how have you become “lion like”1 without my knowing it?

One part of the oracles he purposely does not inform you of, which is2 the only iron wall and wood wherein Loxias ordered you to keep this fellow.

How then did the god declare this?

He bade you bind this fellow here in the five-holed pillory.3

These4 oracles seem to me soon about to be accomplished.

Do not believe him; for envious crows croak at me. But love the hawk, remembering him in your mind, who bound and brought you the young ravens of the Lacedæmonians.5

Assuredly the Paphlagonian hazarded this when he was drunk.6 O foolish son of Cecrops, why do you consider this deed a great one? “Even a woman can bear a burden, when a man may put it upon her;” but she cannot fight, for she would7 be in a fright if she were to fight.

But take heed of this—a Pylos in front of a Pylos, which he declared to you. “There is a Pylos in front of a Pylos.”

What does this mean, “in front of a Pylos?”8

He says he will seize the bathing-tubs in the bath.

And I shall be to-day unwashed, for this fellow has stolen away our bathing-tubs.

But this oracle here is about our navy, to which you must by all means give your attention.

I attend: but do you read, how, in the first place, their pay shall be paid to my sailors.1

“Son of Ægeus, beware of the dog-fox, lest it deceive you, biting2 in secret, swift of foot, the crafty thief, cunning.” Do you know what this is?

Philostratus the dog-fox.3

He does not say this; but this fellow here is always asking for swift ships to levy tribute: these Loxias forbids you to4 grant him.

How, pray, is a trireme a dog-fox?

How? Because your trireme and your dog are swift.

How, then, was “fox” added to “dog?”

He compared the soldiers to little foxes,5 because they eat the clusters of grapes in the farms.

Well, where is the pay for these little foxes?

I will supply it, and that too within three days.6 But further, hearken to this oracle, in which the son of Latona ordered you to beware of Cyllene,7 lest she deceive you?

What Cyllene?

He rightly represented this fellow’s hand as a “Cyllene,” because he says “put into my bent hand.”8

You1 do not understand it rightly; for in Cyllene Phœbus rightly hinted at the hand of Diopithes.2 But indeed3 I have a winged oracle about you, “that you become an eagle, and rule over every land.”

For I also4 have one, which says you shall rule both over the land and the Red Sea too, and that you shall give judgment at Ecbatana, licking up seed-cakes.

But I have seen a vision, and the goddess herself appeared to me to pour health and wealth over the people with a ladle.

Yes, by Jove, for I also have seen one; and the goddess herself appeared to me to come from the citadel, and an owl to be sitting upon her, and then to pour upon each head with a bucket—ambrosia over thee—over this fellow garlick-pickle.

Huzza! huzza! No one then, it appears, is wiser than Glanis.5 Accordingly, now I here commit myself to you, to guide me in my dotage and educate me afresh.

Nay, not yet, I beseech you, but stop, since I will provide you with barley and sustenance every day.

I cannot bear to hear of barley: often have I been deceived by you and Thuphanes.6

But I will forthwith provide you with barley-meal ready prepared.

And I barley-scones7 thoroughly kneaded, and fishes which have been roasted. Do nothing else except eat.

Make haste, then, with what ye are going to do; for I will deliver the reins of the Pnyx to him, whichever of you, again, confers more benefits upon me.

I will run in first.

Certainly not, but I will. [Cleon and the S. S. run off.]

O Demus, you possess a fine sovereignty, when all men dread you as a tyrant. Yet you are easily led by the nose, and you delight in being flattered1 and cajoled, and gape open-mouthed at whoever happens to be2 speaking, and your mind, though present, is abroad.3

There is no sense in your locks,4 when you think me not to be in my sound senses. But I drivel thus on purpose. For I myself delight to cry for drink every day, and wish to bring up a5 thievish minister, and him, when he is glutted, I take up and strike.

And in this way you would be doing well, if, as you say, very great prudence is in this habit of yours, if you purposely bring up these in the Pnyx like public victims, and then, when you have no food, sacrifice and feast upon one of these, whichever6 is fat.

Observe me, if I cleverly overreach them, those who fancy they are wise, and that they humbug me. For I am always watching them while stealing, pretending not to see them; and then I compel them to disgorge again whatever Edition: current; Page: [103] they steal from me, putting the ballot-box like a probe down their throats. [Cleon and the S. S. return.]

Begone to the devil out of the way!

Do you, you pestilent fellow!

O Demus, in truth I have been sitting ready long, long ago, wishing to benefit you.1

And I ten times as long ago,2 and twelve times as long ago, and a thousand times as long ago, and very long ago, long ago, long ago.

And I with waiting for you have been detesting you both thirty thousand times as long ago, and very long ago, long ago, long ago.

Do you know, then, what you are to do?3

If I do not, you shall tell me.

Start me and this fellow here from the starting-post, that we may confer favours on you on equal terms.

I must do so. Begone!

Very well!

Run!

I don’t suffer him to cut in before me. [Both run off.]

Well, by Jove, I shall be mightily blest to-day by my lovers, or I shall grow4 conceited. [Re-enter Cleon and S. S.]

You see, I am the first to bring out a seat for you.

Yet not a table;5 but I am days and days before you. [Demus sits down.]

See! I am bringing you this barley-scone kneaded from the barley of Pylos.

And I bread-spoons scooped out by the goddess with her ivory hand.

What6 a huge finger, then, you have, O mistress!

1And I pea-soup of a good colour and excellent; and Pallas fighting at the gates stirred it up.

Evidently the goddess watches over you, Demus, and now she holds over you a pot full of broth.

Do you think this city could any longer be governed, if she did not evidently hold her pot2 over us?

The scarer of hosts presented you with this slice of salt-fish.

And the daughter of a strong father sent you flesh boiled with broth,3 and a slice of tripe, and belly, and paunch.

She did well in remembering the Peplus.4

She of the Gorgon crest bade you eat some of this pancake, that we may row our vessels well.5

Take now these also. [Hands him the tripe.]

And what am I to do with these guts?

The goddess sent them you on purpose as belly-timber for the triremes;6 for she manifestly watches over the navy. Take and drink a mixture of three parts water and two parts wine. [He hands him a bowl of wine.]

O Jupiter, how sweet, and how well it bears the three!

For Tritogenia mixed it three to two.7

Accept now from me a slice of rich cheese-cake.

But from me the whole8 of this here cheese-cake.

(running to his basket). Well, you will have no means of giving1 hare’s flesh; but I shall.

Ah me! whence shall I have hare’s flesh? Soul of mine, now devise some low trick!

(holding up the basket). Do you see this, you poor wretch?

I care little. For, see! yonder2 people are coming to me!

What people?

Ambassadors with purses of money.

(looking round). Where? where?

What’s that to you? Won’t you let the foreigners alone? [Steals the hare’s flesh.] My little Demus, do you see the hare’s flesh which I am bringing to you?

Ah me, miserable! Unjustly have you filched away what was mine.

Aye, by Neptune,3 for you also did so to the prisoners at Pylos.

(laughing). Tell me, I entreat you; how did you contrive to steal it?

The device was the goddess’s—the theft mine.4

But I ran the hazard.

And I roasted it.

(to Cleon). Be off! For5 the thanks belong to him who served it up.

Ah me,6 unhappy! I shall be surpassed in impudence.

Why do you not decide, Demus, which of us two is the better man towards you and towards your belly?

By the use of what proof, pray, shall I appear to the audience to decide between you wisely?

I will tell you: go and seize upon my chest in silence, Edition: current; Page: [106] and examine what there is in it, and that of the Paphlagonian; and doubtless you’ll judge rightly.

Come, let me see; what, then, is there in it?

(opening the chest). Do you not see that it is empty, dear little papa? for I have set all before you.

This chest is a friend of the people.

At any rate, walk this way also to that of the Paphlagonian. [Opens Cleon’s chest.] Do you see these?

Ah me, the number1 of good things with which it is filled! What a prodigious cheese-cake he has stowed away! while he cut off and gave me only this tiny bit.

Such things, however, he used to do aforetime also; he used to offer you a little of what he received, but used to set before himself the greater part.

O abominable fellow! did you deceive me then, in stealing these? “while I crowned you and2 made you presents.”

I stole for the good of the state.3

Quickly lay down the chaplet, that I may put it upon this man.

Lay it down quickly, you knave!4

Certainly not, since I have a Pythian oracle, which mentions by whom alone I must be conquered.

Aye, which mentions my name, and very distinctly.

Well now, I wish to examine you by a test, if in any wise you shall agree5 with the oracles of the god. And first I will inquire of you thus much: To what teacher’s school did you go when a child?

I was taught with cuffs in the singeing-pits.6

How say you? How7 the oracle affects my soul! Well—What style of wrestling did you learn in the school of the gymnastic-master?

When stealing,1 to forswear and look them in the face.

“O Phœbus,2 Lycian Apollo, what in the world will you do to me?” What trade had you when come to man’s estate?

I sold sausages, and also3 wenched a little.

Ah me, unhappy! “No longer am I aught. Very slender is the hope upon which we ride.”4 And tell me thus much: did you sell sausages, pray, in the market-place, or at the gates?5

At the gates, where the dried fish is sold.

Ah me! the oracle of the god is accomplished! “Roll within this wretched man.”6 My chaplet, fare thee well! albeit7 I leave thee unwillingly. Some other one will take and possess thee: a greater thief he cannot be; more fortunate, perhaps, he may.8 [Exit Cleon.]

Hellenic Jove! thine is the prize of victory.

Oh hail, thou splendidly victorious! and remember that by my means you have become a man. And I ask you a trifling favour, that I may be your Phanus, secretary of indictments.9

Tell me, what is your name?

Agoracritus, for I was maintained by litigation in the market-place.

Then I commit myself to Agoracritus, and deliver up this here Paphlagonian.

Well now, Demus, I will tend you excellently, so that you confess that you have seen no man better than me for the city of the Gapenians.1 [Exeunt Demus and Agoracritus.]

What is more noble for people beginning, or for people concluding, than to sing of the drivers of swift steeds,2—and with willing heart to give no offence to Lysistratus, or Thumantis the homeless? For this fellow, O dear Apollo, ever hungers, touching thy quiver with copious tears at divine Delphi, so as not to be miserably poor.

To revile the wicked is in no wise invidious; but it is an honour to the good, if any consider3 rightly. If therefore the man, who must hear much abuse from me, had been known himself, I would not make mention of a man my friend.4 But now every one knows5 Arignotus, who knows Edition: current; Page: [109] either white, or the Orthian strain. He has, then, a brother, not akin to him in disposition, the vile Ariphrades.1 But he even prefers this vileness. Now he is not only vile—for I should not even have heard of him, if he had been only this, nor yet most villanous, but he has also invented something besides.2 For he employs himself in committing unheard-of obscenities, composing Polymnestean poems and associating with Oionichus.3 Whoever, therefore, does not detest such a fellow exceedingly, shall never drink out of the same cup with us.

Of a truth4 I have oftentimes been engaged in nightly meditations, and have sought whence in the world Cleonymus feeds poorly. For they say that he,5 feeding on the property of the rich, would not come forth from the cupboard; while the others nevertheless used6 to entreat him: “Come, lord, by thy knees, come forth and pardon the table.”

They say that the triremes came together for a conference with each other, and that one of them said, who was more advanced in years, “Have ye not heard, ye virgins, these doings in the city? They say that a certain person requires a hundred of us for Chalcedon, a rascally citizen, sour-tempered7 Hyperbolus.” And they say that this appeared to the others to be shameful and not to be borne, and that one of them said, who had not come nigh man: “Thou averter of ill, he Edition: current; Page: [110] shall certainly never rule over me; but if I must, I will here grow old, rotted by wood-worms. Neither shall he rule over Nauphante, daughter of Nauson; certainly not, ye gods, if indeed I also was constructed of fir and timbers! But if this content the Athenians, I move that we sail to the Theseum,1 or to the august goddesses,2 and sit as suppliants. For he shall not laugh at the city by being our commander. Nay, let him sail alone by himself to the crows, if he will, having launched the trays in which he used to sell his lamps. [Reenter Agoracritus.]

You must use words of good omen, and close the mouth, and abstain from evidence, and shut up the law-courts, in which this city delights; and the audience must chaunt the pæan at our new successes.

O thou light of sacred Athens, and protector of the islands, with what good news have you come, at which3 we should fill the streets with the steam of burnt sacrifice?

I have boiled down4 your Demus, and made him beautiful from being ugly.

Why, where is he now, O thou5 who inventest wondrous devices?

He is dwelling in the violet-crowned,6 the ancient Athens.

Would we could see him!7 What sort of a dress has he? What sort of a person has he become?

Such as when he used to mess with Aristides and Miltiades in olden time. Ye shall see him, for now there is a noise of the Propylæa getting opened. But shout aloud at Edition: current; Page: [111] the appearance of the ancient Athens, both wondrous, and much sung of, where the illustrious Demus dwells.

O sleek,1 and violet-crowned, and much to be envied Athens! show to us the monarch of Greece, and of this land. [Here the folding-doors of the Acropolis are thrown open, and Demus is seen sitting upon a throne, gorgeously dressed in the fashion of the Marathonian times, and in all the bloom of youth.]

Lo! there he is for you to behold, wearing the cicada,2 conspicuous in his olden garb, not smelling of shells,3 but of peace, anointed with myrrh.4

Hail, thou king of the Grecians! We also rejoice with thee; for thou farest in a manner worthy of the city and of the trophy at Marathon.

O dearest of men, come hither, Agoracritus! How much good you have done me by having boiled me down!

I? But, my good friend, you do not know what sort of a person you were before, nor what you did: for otherwise you would consider me a god.

What5 did I before this, and what sort of a man was I? tell me.

In the first place, whenever any one said in the assembly, “Demus, I am your lover, and I love you, and care Edition: current; Page: [112] for you, and alone1 provide for you;” whenever any one used these preambles, you used to clap your wings and crow, and hold your head high.

What, I?

And then in return for this, he cheated you and went off.

What do you say? Did they treat me thus, and I not perceive it?

Aye, by Jove, and your ears used to be opening and shutting again, just like a parasol.

Had I become so senseless and doting?

And, by Jove, if two orators2 were speaking, the one recommending to build ships of war, the other, on the contrary, to spend this in paying the dicasts, the one who spoke of the pay, having outstripped the one who spoke of the triremes, used to go his way.3 Hollo you! Why do you hang down your head? Will you not remain in your place?

In truth I am ashamed at my former faults.

You were not to blame for this,—do not be concerned,—but those who deceived you in this. But4 now tell me: if any lick-spittle advocate should say, “You dicasts have no maintenance, if you will not decide against this suit.” Tell me; what will you do to this advocate?

I will raise him aloft and cast him into the Pit, having hung Hyperbolus about his neck.

This now you speak rightly and prudently.1 But in other respects, come, let me see, tell me how you will conduct the government.

In the first place, as many as row ships of war, to these I will pay their wages in full when they come into port.

You2 have bestowed a favour on many smooth-worn bottoms.

Secondly, no hoplite who has been enrolled in the list for service, shall be transferred to another list, through interest, but shall remain enrolled3 as he was at first.

This has stung Cleonymus’ buckler.

Nor shall any beardless fellow lounge in the market-place.

Where then shall Clisthenes4 and Strato lounge?

I mean these striplings in the perfume-market, who sit and chatter in this wise:—“Phæax5 is a clever fellow, and has learnt shrewdly. For he is cogent, and conclusive, and clever at coining maxims, and perspicuous, and forcible, and admirably adapted for checking the uproarious.”6

Are not you, then, adapted for7 kicking the babbling?

No, by Jove, but I will compel all these to go a hunting, having left off decrees.

On these conditions, then, take8 this here folding-stool, and a stout youth who shall carry it for you. And, if any where you choose, make a folding-stool of him.

Happy man, now I am reinstated in my pristine constitution!1

You will say so, when I give you the thirty years’ peace. Come hither, peace, quickly! [Enter a beautiful girl in the character of Peace.]

Much-honoured Jove, how beautiful! By the gods,2 is it permitted to enjoy her? Pray, how did you get her?

Did not the Paphlagonian conceal her within, that you might not get her? Now therefore I hand her over to you, to take with you into the country.

But tell me what mischief you will do to the Paphlagonian, who did this.

No great matter, except3 that he shall exercise my trade. He shall have the exclusive sale of sausages at the gates, mixing dogs’ with asses’ flesh; and when drunk he shall slang with the harlots, and shall drink the dirty water4 from the baths.

You have happily devised that of which he is worthy, to contend5 in bawling with the harlots and bath-men; and in return for this I invite you to the Prytaneum, and to the seat where that villain used to be. But take this here froggreen coat and follow! And let some one carry him out to exercise his trade,6 that the foreigners whom he maltreated may behold him! [Cleon is carried out, and exeunt omnes.]

Ah me! ah me! O king Jupiter, of what a terrible length the nights are!1 Will it never be day? And yet2 long since I heard the cock. My domestics are snoring; but they would not have done so heretofore! May you perish then, O war! for many reasons; because I may not even punish my domestics.3 Neither does this excellent youth awake through the night; but takes his ease, wrapped up in five blankets. Well, if it is the fashion, let us snore wrapped up. [Lies down, and then almost immediately starts up again.]

But I am not able, miserable man, to sleep, being tormented by my expenses, and my stud of horses, and my debts, through this son of mine. He with his long hair,1 is riding horses and driving curricles, and dreaming of horses; while I am driven to distraction, as I see the moon2 bringing on the twentieths; for the interest is running on.—Boy! light a lamp, and bring forth my tablets, that I may take them and read to how many I am indebted, and calculate the interest. [Enter boy with a light and tablets.] Come, let me see; what do I owe? Twelve minæ to Pasias. Why3 twelve minæ to Pasias? Why did I borrow them? When I bought the blood-horse.4 Ah me, unhappy! Would that it had had its eye knocked5 out with a stone first!

(talking in his sleep). You are acting unfairly, Philo!6 Drive on your own course.

This7 is the bane which has destroyed me; for even in his sleep he dreams about horsemanship.

How8 many courses will the war-chariots run?

Many courses do you drive me, your father.—But what debt9 came upon me after Pasias? Three minæ to Amynias for a little chariot and pair of wheels.

Lead the horse home, after having given him a good rolling.

O foolish youth, you have rolled me out of my possessions; since I have been cast in suits, and others say that they will have surety given them for the interest.

(awaking). Pray, father, why are you peevish, and toss about the whole night?

A bailiff1 out of the bed-clothes is biting me.

Suffer me, good sir, to sleep a little.

Then, do you sleep on; but know that all these debts will turn on your head. [Phidippides falls asleep again.] Alas! would that the match-maker2 had perished miserably, who induced me to marry your mother. For a country life used to be most agreeable to me, dirty, untrimmed, reclining at random, abounding in bees, and sheep, and oil-cake. Then I, a rustic, married a niece of Megacles, the son of Megacles, from the city, haughty, luxurious, and Cœsyrafied.3 When I married her, I lay with her redolent of new wine, of the cheese-crate, and abundance of wool; but she, on the contrary, of ointment, saffron, wanton-kisses, extravagance, gluttony, and of Colias and Genetyllis.4 I will not indeed say that she was idle; but she wove. And I used to show her this cloak by way of pretext, and say, “Wife, you weave at a great rate.” [Servant re-enters.]

We have no oil in the lamp.

Ah me! why did you light the thirsty5 lamp? Come hither, that you may weep!

For what, pray, shall I weep?

Because you put in one of the thick wicks. [Ser vant runs out.]—After this, when this son was born to us, to me, forsooth, and to my excellent wife, we squabbled then about the name: for she was for adding ἵππος to the name, Xanthippus,1 or Charippus, or Callippides; but I was for giving him the name of his grandfather, Phidonides. For a time therefore we disputed; and then at length we agreed, and called him Phidippides.2 She used to take this son and fondle him, saying, “When you, being grown up, shall drive your chariot to the city, like Megacles, with a xystis.”3 But I used to say, “Nay, rather, when dressed in a leathern jerkin, you shall drive your goats from Phelleus, like your father.” He paid no attention to my words, but4 poured a horse-fever over my property. Now therefore, by meditating the whole night, I have discovered one path for my course extraordinarily excellent; to which if I persuade this youth, I shall be saved. But first I wish to awake him. How then can I awake him in the most agreeable manner?—How? Phidippides, my little Phidippides?

What, father?

Kiss me, and give me your right hand!

There. What’s the matter?

Tell me, do you love me?

Yes, by this Equestrian Neptune.5

Nay, do not by any means mention this Equestrian to me, for this god is the author of my misfortunes. But, if you really love me from your heart, my son, obey me.

In what then, pray, shall I obey you?

Reform your habits as quickly as possible; and go and learn what I advise.

Tell me now, what do you prescribe?

And will you obey me at all?

By Bacchus, I will obey you.

Look this way then! Do you see this little door and little house?

I see it. What then, pray, is this, father?

This is a thinking-shop1 of wise spirits. There dwell men who in speaking of the heavens persuade people that it is an oven, and that it encompasses us, and that we are the embers. These men teach, if one give them money,2 to conquer in speaking, right or wrong.

Who are they?

I do not know the name accurately. They are minute-philosophers,3 noble and excellent.

Bah! they are rogues; I know them. You mean the quacks, the pale-faced wretches, the bare-footed fellows, of whose number are the miserable Socrates and Chærephon.4

Hold! hold! be silent! Do not say any thing foolish. But, if you have any concern for your father’s patrimony, become one of them, having given up your horsemanship.5

I would not, by Bacchus, if even you were to give me the pheasants6 which Leogoras rears!

Go, I entreat you, dearest of men, go and be taught.

Why, what shall I learn?

They say, that among them are both the two causes,—the better cause, whichever that is, and the worse: they say, that the one of these two causes, the worse, prevails, though it speaks on the unjust side. If therefore you learn for me this unjust cause, I would not pay to any one, not even an obolous of these debts, which I owe at present on your account.

I cannot comply; for I should not dare to look upon the Knights, having lost all my colour.

Then, by Ceres, you shall not eat any of my goods! neither you, nor your draught-horse, nor your blood-horse;1 but I will drive you out of my house to the crows.

My uncle Megacles will not permit me to be without a horse. But I’ll go in, and pay no heed to you.2 [Exit Phidippides.]

Though fallen, still I will not lie prostrate: but having prayed to the gods, I will go myself to the thinkingshop and get taught. How then, being an old man, and having a bad memory, and dull of comprehension, shall I learn the subtleties of refined disquisitions?—I must go. Why thus do I loiter and not knock at the door? [Knocks at the door.] Boy! little boy!

(from within). Go to the devil! Who is it that knocked at the door?

Strepsiades,1 the son of Phidon, of Cicynna.

You are a stupid fellow, by Jove! who have kicked against the door so very carelessly, and have caused the miscarriage2 of an idea which I had conceived.

Pardon me; for I dwell afar in the country.3 But tell me the thing which has been made to miscarry.

It is not lawful to mention it, except to disciples.

Tell it, then, to me without fear; for I here am come4 as a disciple to the thinking-shop.

I will tell you; but you must regard these as mysteries. Socrates lately asked Chærephon about5 a flea, how many of its own feet it jumped; for after having bit the eyebrow of Chærephon, it leapt away on to the head of Socrates.

How, then, did he measure this?

Most cleverly. He melted some wax, and then took the flea and dipped its feet in the wax; and then a pair of Persian slippers stuck to it when cooled. Having gently loosened these, he measured back the distance.

O king Jupiter! what6 subtlety of thought!

What then would you say, if you heard another contrivance of Socrates?

Of what kind? Tell me, I beseech you!

Chærephon the Sphettian asked him whether he thought gnats buzzed through the mouth or the breech.

What, then, did he say about the gnat?

He said the intestine of the gnat was narrow, and that the wind went forcibly through it, being slender, straight to the breech; and then that the rump, being hollow where it is adjacent to the narrow part, resounded through the violence of the wind.

The rump of gnats then is a trumpet! O thrice happy he for his sharp-sightedness!1 Surely a defendant might easily get acquitted, who understands the intestine of the gnat.

But he was lately deprived of a great idea by a lizard.

In what way? Tell me.

As he was investigating the courses of the moon, and her revolutions, then as he was gaping upwards, a lizard in the darkness dunged upon him from the roof.

I am amused at a lizard’s having dunged on Socrates.

Yesterday evening there was no supper for us.

Well. What then did he contrive for provisions?

He sprinkled fine ashes on the table, and bent a little spit, and then took it as a pair of compasses and filched a cloak from the Palæstra.2

Why then do we admire that Thales?3 Open, open quickly the thinking-shop, and show to me Socrates as quickly as possible. For I desire to be a disciple. Come, open the door.—[The door of the Thinking-shop opens, and the pupils of Socrates are seen all with their heads fixed on the ground, while Socrates himself is seen suspended in the air in a basket.] Edition: current; Page: [125] O Hercules, from what country are these wild beasts?

What do you wonder at? To what do they seem to you to be like?

To the Spartans, who were taken at Pylos.1 But why in the world do these look upon the ground?

They are in search of the things below the earth.

Then they are searching for roots. Do not, then, trouble yourselves about this; for I know where there are large and fine ones. Why, what are these doing,2 who are bent down so much?

These are groping about in darkness3 under Tartarus.

Why then does their rump look towards heaven?

It is getting taught astronomy alone by itself. [Turning to the pupils.] But go in, lest he meet with us.

Not yet, not yet: but let them remain, that I may communicate to them a little matter of my own.

It is not permitted to them to remain without in the open air for a very long time. [The pupils retire.]

(discovering a variety of mathematical instruments). Why, what is this, in the name of heaven?4 Tell me.

This is Astronomy.

But what is this?

Geometry.

What then is the use of this?

To measure out the land.

What belongs to an allotment?

No, but the whole earth.

You tell me a clever notion; for the contrivance1 is democratic and useful.

(pointing to a map). See, here’s a map of the whole earth. Do you see? this is Athens.

What say you? I don’t believe you; for I do not see the Dicasts2 sitting.

Be assured that this is truly the Attic territory.3

Why, where are my fellow-tribesmen of Cicynna?

Here they are. And Eubœa here, as you see, is stretched out a long way by the side of it to a great distance.

I know that; for it was stretched by us and Pericles.4 But where is Lacedæmon?

Where is it? Here it is.

How near it is to us! Pay great attention to this,5 to remove it very far from us.

By Jupiter, it is not possible.

Then you will weep for it. [Looking up and discovering Socrates.] Come, who is this man who is in the basket?

Himself.

Who’s “Himself?”

Socrates.

O Socrates! Come, you sir,6 call upon him loudly for me.

Nay, rather, call him yourself; for I have no leisure.1 [Exit disciple.]

Socrates! my little Socrates!

Why callest thou me, thou creature of a day?

First tell me, I beseech you, what you are doing.

I am walking in the air,2 and speculating about the sun.

And so you look down upon3 the gods from your basket, and not from the earth? if, indeed, it is so.

For I should never have rightly discovered things celestial, if I had not suspended the intellect, and mixed the thought in a subtle form with its kindred air. But if, being on the ground, I speculated from below on things above, I should never have discovered them. For4 the earth forcibly attracts to itself the meditative moisture. Water-cresses also suffer5 the very same thing.

What do you say?—Does meditation attract the moisture to the water-cresses? Come then, my little Socrates, descend to me, that you may teach me those things, for the sake of which I have come. [Socrates lowers himself and gets out of the basket.]

And for what did you come?

Wishing to learn to speak; for, by reason of usury, and most ill-natured creditors, I am pillaged and plundered, and have my goods seized for debt.

How did you get in debt without observing it?

A horse-disease consumed me,—terrible at eating. But teach me the other one of your two causes,6 that which Edition: current; Page: [128] pays nothing; and I will swear by the gods, I will pay down to you whatever reward you exact of me.

By what gods will you swear? for, in the first place, gods are not a current coin with us.

By what do you swear? By iron money,1 as in Byzantium?2

Do you wish to know clearly celestial matters, what they rightly are?

Yes, by Jupiter, if it be possible!

And to hold converse with the Clouds, our divinities?

By all means.

(with great solemnity). Seat yourself, then, upon the sacred couch.

Well, I am seated!

Take, then, this chaplet.

For what purpose a chaplet?—Ah me! Socrates, see that you do not sacrifice me like Athamas!3

No; we do all these to those who get initiated.

Then, what shall I gain, pray?

You shall become in oratory a tricky knave, a thorough4 rattle, a subtle speaker.—But keep quiet.

By Jupiter, you will not deceive me; for if I am besprinkled, I shall become fine flour.

It becomes the old man to speak words of good omen, and to hearken to my prayer.—O sovereign King, immeasurable Air, who keepest the earth suspended, and thou bright Æther, and ye august goddesses, the Clouds sending thunder and lightning, arise, appear in the air, O mistresses, to your deep thinker.

Not yet, not yet, till I wrap this around me, lest I be wet through. To think of my having come1 from home without even a cap, unlucky man!

Come then, ye highly honoured Clouds, for a display to this man.2 Whether ye are sitting upon the sacred snow-covered summits of Olympus, or in the gardens of father Ocean form a sacred dance with the Nymphs, or draw in golden pitchers the streams of the waters of the Nile,3 or inhabit the Mæotic lake, or the snowy rock of Mimas,4 hearken to our prayer, and receive the sacrifice, and be propitious to the sacred rites.5 [The following song is heard at a distance, accompanied by loud claps of thunder.]

Eternal Clouds! let us arise to view with our dewy, clear-bright nature, from loud-sounding father Ocean to the wood-crowned summits of the lofty mountains, in order that we may behold clearly the far-seen watch-towers, and the fruits, and the fostering sacred earth, and the rushing sounds of the divine rivers, and the roaring, loud-sounding sea; for the unwearied eye of Æther sparkles with glittering rays. Come, let us shake off the watery cloud from our immortal forms and survey the earth with far-seeing eye.

O ye greatly venerable Clouds, ye have clearly heard me when I called. [Turning to Strepsiades.] Did you hear the voice, and the thunder which bellowed at the same time, feared as a god?

I too worship you, O ye highly-honoured,6 and am Edition: current; Page: [130] inclined to fart in reply to the thundering, so much do I tremble at them and am alarmed. And whether it be lawful, or be not lawful, I have a desire just now to ease myself.

Don’t scoff,1 nor do what these poor-devil-poets do, but use words of good omen, for a great swarm of goddesses is in motion with their songs.

Ye rain-bringing virgins, let us come to the fruitful land of Pallas, to view the much-loved country of Cecrops abounding in brave men; where is reverence for sacred rites not to be divulged; where the house that receives the initiated is thrown open in holy mystic rites; and gifts to the celestial gods; and high-roofed temples, and statues; and most sacred processions in honour of the blessed gods; and well-crowned sacrifices to the gods, and feasts, at all seasons; and with the approach of spring the Bacchic festivity, and the rousings of melodious Choruses, and the loud-sounding music of flutes.

Tell me, O Socrates, I beseech you by Jupiter, who are these that have uttered this grand song? Are they some heroines?

By no means; but heavenly Clouds, great divinities to idle men;2 who supply us with thought, and argument, and intelligence, and humbug, and circumlocution, and ability to hoax, and comprehension.

On this account therefore my soul, having heard their voice, flutters, and already seeks to discourse subtilely, and to quibble about smoke, and having pricked a maxim3 with a little notion, to refute the opposite argument. So that now I eagerly desire, if by any means it be possible, to see them palpably.

Look, then, hither, towards Mount Parnes;4 for now I behold them descending gently.

Pray, where? Show me.

See! there they come in very great numbers1 through the hollows and thickets; there, obliquely.

What’s the matter? for I can’t see them.

By the entrance. [Enter Chorus.]

Now at length with difficulty I just see them.

Now at length you assuredly see them, unless you have your eyes running pumpkins.2

Yes, by Jupiter! O highly honoured Clouds, for now they cover all things.

Did you not, however, know, nor yet consider, these to be goddesses?

No, by Jupiter! but I thought them to be mist, and dew, and smoke.

For you do not know, by Jupiter, that these feed very many sophists, Thurian soothsayers, practisers of medicine, lazy-longhaired-onyx-ring-wearers,3 and song-twisters for the cyclic dances, and meteorological quacks. They feed idle people who do nothing, because such men celebrate them in verse.

For this reason, then, they introduced4 into their verses “the dreadful impetuosity of the moist whirling-bright clouds;”5 and “the curls of hundred-headed Typho;” and “the hard-blowing tempests;” and then, “aërial, moist;” “crooked-clawed birds, floating in air;” and “the showers of rain from dewy Clouds.” And then, in return for these, they swallow “slices of great, fine mullets,6 and bird’s-flesh of thrushes.”

Is it not just,1 however, that they should have their reward, on account of these?

Tell me, pray, if they are really Clouds, what ails them, that they resemble mortal women? For they are not such.

Pray, of what nature are they?

I do not clearly know: at any rate they resemble spread-out fleeces, and not women, by Jupiter! not a bit;2 for these have noses.

Answer, then, whatever I ask you.

Then say quickly what you wish.

Have you ever, when you looked up, seen a cloud3 like to a centaur, or a panther, or a wolf, or a bull?

By Jupiter, have I! But what of that?4

They become all things, whatever they please. And then, if they see a person with long hair, a wild one of these5 hairy fellows, like the son of Xenophantes, in derision of his folly, they liken themselves to centaurs.

Why, what, if they should see Simon, a plunderer of the public property, what do they do?

They suddenly become wolves, showing up his disposition.

For this reason, then, for this reason, when they yesterday saw Cleonymus the recreant, on this account they became stags, because they saw this most cowardly fellow.

And now too, because they saw Clisthenes, you observe, on this account they became women.

Hail therefore, O mistresses! And now, if ever ye did to any other, to me also utter a voice reaching to heaven, O all-powerful queens.

Hail, O ancient veteran, hunter after learned speeches! And thou, O priest of most subtle trifles! tell us what you require? For we would not hearken to any other of the present meteorological sophists, except to Prodicus;1 to him, on account of his wisdom and intelligence; and to you, because you walk proudly in the streets, and cast your eyes askance, and endure many hardships with bare feet, and in reliance upon us lookest supercilious.2

O earth, what a voice! how holy, and dignified, and wondrous!

For, in fact, these alone are goddesses; and all the rest is nonsense.

But come, by the Earth, is not Jupiter,3 the Olympian, a god?

What4 Jupiter? Do not trifle. There is no Jupiter.

What do you say? Who rains, then? For first of all explain this to me.

These, to be sure. I will teach you it by powerful evidence. Come, where have you ever seen him raining at any time without Clouds? And yet he ought to rain in fine weather, and these to be absent.

By Apollo, of a truth you have rightly confirmed this by your present argument. And yet, before this, I really thought that Jupiter pissed through a sieve. Tell me who it is that thunders. This makes me tremble.

These, as they roll, thunder.

In what way? you all-daring man!1

When2 they are full of much water, and are compelled to be borne along, being necessarily precipitated when full of rain, then they fall heavily upon each other and burst and clap.

Who is it that compels them to be borne along? is it not Jupiter?

By no means, but æthereal Vortex.

Vortex? It had escaped my notice3 that Jupiter did not exist, and that Vortex now reigned in his stead. But you have taught me nothing as yet concerning the clap and the thunder.

Have you not heard me, that I said that the Clouds, when full of moisture, dash against each other, and clap by reason of their density?

Come, how am I to believe this?

I’ll teach you from your own case. Were you ever, after being stuffed with broth at the Panathenaïc festival, then disturbed in your belly, and did a tumult suddenly rumble through it?

Yes, by Apollo, and immediately the little broth plays the mischief with me, and is disturbed, and rumbles like thunder, and grumbles dreadfully: at first gently pappax, pappax; and then it adds papapappax; and when I go to stool, it thunders downright papapappax, as they do.

Consider, therefore, how you have trumpeted from a little belly so small: and how is it not probable that this air, being boundless, should thunder loudly?

For this reason, therefore, the two names also, Trump and Thunder, are similar to each other. But teach me this, whence comes the thunderbolt blazing with fire, and Edition: current; Page: [135] burns us to ashes when it smites us, and singes those who survive. For indeed Jupiter evidently hurls this at the perjured.

Why, how then, you foolish person, and savouring of the dark ages and antediluvian, if his manner is to smite the perjured, does he not blast Simon, and Cleonymus, and Theorus? And yet they are very perjured. But he smites his own temple, and Sunium, the promontory of Athens,1 and the tall oaks. Wherefore? for indeed an oak does not commit perjury.

I do not know; but you seem to speak well. For what, pray, is the thunderbolt?

When a dry wind, having been raised aloft, is enclosed in these Clouds, it inflates them within, like a bladder; and then, of necessity, having burst them, it rushes out with vehemence by reason of its density, setting fire to itself through its rushing and impetuosity.

By Jupiter, of a truth I once experienced this exactly at the Diasian festival! I was roasting a haggis for my kinsfolk, and then through neglect I did not cut it open; but it became inflated, and then suddenly bursting, befouled my very eyes with dung, and burnt my face.2

O mortal, who hast desired great wisdom from us! How happy will you become amongst the Athenians and amongst the Greeks, if you be possessed of a good memory, and be a deep thinker, and endurance of labour be implanted in your soul, and you be not wearied either by standing or walking, nor be exceedingly vexed at shivering with cold, nor long to break your fast, and you refrain from wine, and gymnastics, and the other follies, and consider this the highest excellence, as is proper a clever man should, to conquer by action and counsel, and by battling with your tongue.

As far as regards a sturdy spirit,3 and care that makes one’s bed uneasy, and a frugal and hard-living and savory-eating belly, be of good courage and don’t trouble Edition: current; Page: [136] yourself. I would offer myself to hammer on,1 for that matter.

Will you not,2 pray, now believe in no god, except what we believe in—this Chaos, and the Clouds, and the Tongue—these three?

Absolutely I would not even converse with the others, not even if I met them; nor would I sacrifice to them, nor make libations, nor offer frankincense.

Tell us then boldly, what we must do for you! for you shall not fail in getting it, if you honour3 and admire us, and seek to become clever.

O mistresses, I request of you then this very small favour, that I be the best of the Greeks in speaking by4 a hundred stadia.

Well, you shall have this from us, so that henceforward from this time no one shall get more opinions passed in the public assemblies than you.

Grant me not to deliver important opinions; for I do not desire these, but only5 to pervert the right for my own advantage, and to evade my creditors.

Then you shall obtain what you desire; for you do not covet great things. But commit yourself without fear to our ministers.

I will do so in reliance upon you, for necessity oppresses me, on account of the blood-horses, and the marriage which ruined me. Now, therefore, let them use me as they please. I give up this my body to them to be beaten, to be hungered, to be troubled with thirst, to be squalid, to shiver with cold, to flay into a leathern bottle,6 if I shall escape clear Edition: current; Page: [137] from my debts, and appear to men to be bold, glib of tongue, audacious, impudent, shameless, a fabricator of falsehoods, inventive of words, a practised knave in lawsuits, a law-tablet, a thorough rattle, a fox, a sharper, a slippery knave, a dissembler, a slippery fellow, an impostor, a gallows-bird,1 a blackguard, a twister, a troublesome fellow, a licker-up of hashes. If they call me this, when they meet me, let them do to me absolutely what they please. And if they like, by Ceres, let them serve up a sausage out of me to the deep thinkers.

This man has a spirit not void of courage, but prompt. Know, that if2 you learn these matters from me, you will possess amongst mortals a glory as high as heaven.

What shall I experience?

You shall pass with me the most enviable of mortal lives the whole time.

Shall I then ever see this?

Yea, so that many be always seated at your gates, wishing to communicate with you and come to a conference with you, to consult with you as to actions and affidavits of many talents, as is worthy of your abilities.3 [To Socrates.] But attempt to teach the old man by degrees whatever you purpose, and scrutinize his intellect, and make trial of his mind.

Come now, tell me your own turn of mind; in order that, when I know of what sort it is, I may now, after this, apply to you new engines.4

What? By the gods, do you purpose to besiege me?

No; I wish to briefly learn from you if you are possessed of a good memory.

In two ways, by Jove. If any thing be owing to Edition: current; Page: [138] me, I have a very good memory; but if I owe, unhappy man, I am very forgetful.

Is the power of speaking, pray, implanted in your nature?

Speaking is not in me, but cheating is.

How, then, will you be able to learn?

Excellently, of course.

Come, then, take care that,1 whenever I propound any clever dogma about abstruse matters, you catch it up immediately.

What then? Am I to feed upon wisdom like a dog?

This man is ignorant and brutish. I fear, old man, lest you will need blows.2 Come, let me see; what do you do if any one beat you?

I take the beating;3 and then, when I have waited a little while, I call witnesses to prove it; then, again, after a short interval, I go to law.

Come then, lay down your cloak.

Have I done any wrong?

No; but it is the rule to enter naked.

But I do not enter to search for stolen goods.

Lay it down. Why do you talk nonsense?

Now tell me this, pray. If I be diligent and learn zealously, to which of your disciples shall I become like?

You will no way differ from Chærephon in intellect.4

Ah me, unhappy! I shall become half-dead.

Don’t5 chatter; but quickly follow me hither with smartness.

Then give me first into my hands a honeyed6 cake; for I am afraid of descending within, as if into the cave of Trophonius.

Proceed; why do you keep poking about the door? [Exeunt Socrates and Strepsiades.]

Well, go in peace, for the sake of this your valour. May prosperity attend the man, because, being advanced into the vale of years, he imbues his intellect with modern subjects, and cultivates wisdom! [Turning to the audience.]

Spectators,1 I will freely declare to you the truth, by Bacchus, who nurtured me! So may I conquer,2 and be accounted skilful, as that, deeming you to be clever spectators, and this to be the cleverest of my comedies,3 I thought proper to let you first taste that comedy, which gave me the greatest labour. And then I retired from the contest4 defeated by vulgar fellows, though I did not deserve it. These things, therefore, I object to you, a learned audience, for whose sake I was expending this labour. But not even thus will I ever willingly desert the discerning5 portion of you. For since what time my Modest Man and my Rake6 were very highly praised here by an audience, with whom it is a pleasure even to hold converse, and I (for I was still a virgin, and it was not lawful for me as yet to have children) exposed my offspring, and another girl took it up and owned it, and you generously reared and educated it, from this time7 I have had Edition: current; Page: [140] sure pledges of your good-will towards me. Now, therefore, like that well-known Electra,1 has this comedy come seeking, if haply it meet with an audience so clever, for it will recognise, if it should see, the lock of its brother. But see how modest she is by nature, who, in the first place, has come, having stitched to her no leathern phallus hanging down, red at the top, and thick, to set the boys a laughing; nor yet jeered the bald-headed,2 nor danced the cordax; nor3 does the old man who speaks the verses beat the person near him with his staff, keeping out of sight wretched ribaldry; nor has she rushed in with torches, nor does she shout ἰοὺ, ἰού;4 but has come relying on herself and her verses.5 And I, although so excellent a poet, do not give myself airs, nor do I seek to deceive you by twice and thrice bringing forward the same pieces; but I am always6 clever at introducing new fashions, not at all resembling each other, and all of them clever: who struck Cleon in the belly when at the height of his power, and could not bear to attack him afterwards when he was down. But these scribblers, when once Hyperbolus has given them a handle, keep ever trampling on this wretched man and his mother. Eupolis, indeed, first of all craftily introduced Edition: current; Page: [141] his Maricas, having basely, base fellow, spoiled by altering my play of the Knights, having added to it, for the sake of the cordax, a drunken old woman, whom Phrynichus long ago poetized, whom the whale was for devouring. Then again Hermippus made verses on Hyperbolus; and now all others press hard upon Hyperbolus, imitating my simile of the eels.1 Whoever, therefore, laughs at these, let him not take pleasure in my attempts; but if you are delighted with me and my inventions, in times to come you will seem to be wise.2

I first invoke,3 to join our choral band, the mighty Jupiter, ruling on high, the monarch of gods; and the potent master of the trident, the fierce upheaver of earth and briny sea; and our father of great renown, most august Æther, life-supporter of all; and the horse-guider, who fills the plain of the earth with exceeding bright beams, a mighty deity among gods and mortals.

Most clever spectators, come, give us your attention; for having been injured, we blame you to your faces. For though we benefit the state most of all the gods, to us alone of deities you do not offer sacrifice nor yet pour libations, who watch over you. For if there should be any expedition with no prudence, then we either thunder or drizzle small rain. And then, when you were for choosing as your general the Paphlagonian tanner, hateful to the gods, we contracted our brows and were enraged; and thunder4 burst through the lightning, and the moon forsook her usual paths; and the sun immediately drew in his wick to himself, and declared he would not give you light, if Cleon should be your general. Edition: current; Page: [142] Nevertheless you chose him. For they say that ill counsel is in this city; that the gods, however, turn all these your mismanagements1 to a prosperous issue. And how this also shall be advantageous, we will easily teach you. If you should convict the cormorant Cleon of bribery and embezzlement, and then make fast his neck in the stocks, the affair will turn out for the state to the ancient form again, if you have mismanaged in any way, and to a prosperous issue.2

Hear me3 again, king Phœbus, Delian Apollo, who inhabitest the high-peaked Cynthian rock! and thou, blest goddess, who inhabitest the all-golden house of Ephesus, in which Lydian damsels greatly reverence thee; and thou, our national goddess, swayer of the ægis, Minerva, guardian of the city! and thou, reveller Bacchus, who, inhabiting the Parnassian rock, sparklest with torches, conspicuous among the Delphic Bacchanals!

When we had got ready to set out hither, the Moon met us, and commanded us first to greet the Athenians and their allies; and then declared that she was angry; for that she had suffered dreadful things, though she benefits you all, not in words, but openly. In the first place, not less than a drachma4 every month for torches; so that also all, when they went out of an evening, were wont to say, “Boy, don’t buy a torch, for the moonlight is beautiful.” And she says she confers other benefits on you, but that you do not observe the days at all correctly, but confuse them up and down; so that she says the gods are constantly threatening her, when they are defrauded of their dinner, and depart home not having met with the regular feast according to the number of the days. And then, when you ought to be sacrificing, you are inflicting tortures and litigating. And often, while we gods are observing a fast, when we mourn for Memnon or Edition: current; Page: [143] Sarpedon, you are pouring libations and laughing. For which reason Hyperbolus, having obtained by lot this year to be Hieromnemon, was afterwards deprived by us gods of his1 crown: for thus he will know better that he ought to spend the days of his life according to the Moon. [Enter Socrates.]

By Respiration, and Chaos, and Air, I have not seen any man so boorish, nor so impracticable, nor so stupid, nor so forgetful; who, while learning some little petty quibbles, forgets them before he has learnt them. Nevertheless I will certainly call him out here to the light.2 Where is Strepsiades? come forth with your couch.

(from within). The bugs do not permit me to bring it forth.

Make haste and lay it down; and give me your attention. [Enter Strepsiades.]

Very well.

Come now; what do you now wish to learn first of those things in none of which you have ever been instructed? Tell me. About measures, or rhythms, or verses?

I should prefer to learn about measures; for it is but lately I was cheated out of two chœnices by a meal-huckster.

I do not ask you this, but which you account the most beautiful measure; the trimeter or the tetrameter?

I think nothing superior to the semisextarius.3

You talk nonsense, man.

Make a wager then with me,4 if the semisextarius be not a tetrameter.

Go to the devil! how boorish you are and dull of learning! Perhaps you may be able to learn about rhythms.

But what good will rhythms do me for a living?

In the first place, to be clever at an entertainment, understanding what rhythm is for the war-dance, and what, again, according to the dactyle.

According to the dactyle? By Jove, but I know it.

Tell me, pray.

What else but this finger? Formerly, indeed, when I was yet a boy, this here!

You are boorish and stupid.

For I do not desire, you wretch, to learn any of these things.

What then?

That, that, the most unjust cause.

But you must learn other things before these: namely, what quadrupeds are properly masculine.

I know the males, if I am not mad:—κϱιὸς, τράγος, ταῦρος, κύων, ἀλεκτϱυών.1

Do you see what you are doing? You are calling both the female and the male ἀλεκτϱυὼν in the same way.

How, pray? come, tell me.

How?2 The one with you is ἀλεκτϱυὼν, and the other is ἀλεκτϱυὼν also.

Yea, by Neptune! how now ought I to call them?

The one ἀλεκτϱύαινα, and the other ἀλέκτωϱ.

Ἀλεκτϱύαινα? Capital, by the Air! So that, in return for this lesson alone, I will fill your κάϱδοπος full of barley-meal on all sides.

See! see!3 there again’s another blunder! You make κάϱδοπος, which is feminine, to be masculine.

In what way do I make κάρδοπος masculine?

Most assuredly; just as if you were to say Κλεώνυμος.

How, pray? Tell me.

Κάϱδοπος with you is tantamount to Κλεώνυμος.

Good sir, Cleonymus had no kneading-trough, but Edition: current; Page: [145] kneaded his bread in a round mortar.1 How ought I to call it henceforth?

How? Call it καρδόπη, as you call Σωστράτη.

Καρδόπη, in the feminine?

For so you speak it rightly.

But that would make it καρδόπη, Κλεωνύμη.

You must learn one thing more about names, what are masculine, and what of them are feminine.

I know what are female.

Tell me, pray.

Lysilla, Philinna, Clitagora, Demetria.

What names are masculine?

Thousands: Philoxenus, Melesias, Amynias.

But, you wretch! these are not masculine.

Are they not males with you?

By no means: for how would you call to Amynias,2 if you met him?

How would I call? Thus: “Come hither, come hither, Amynia!”

Do you see? you call Amynias a woman.

Is it not then with justice, who does not serve in the army?3 But why should I learn these things, which we all know?

It is no use, by Jupiter! Having reclined yourself down here—

What must I do?

Think out some of your own affairs.

Not here, pray, I beseech you; but, if I must, suffer me to excogitate these very things on the ground.

There is no other way.1 [Exit Socrates.]

Unfortunate man that I am! what a penalty shall I this day pay to the bugs!2

Now meditate3 and examine closely; and roll yourself about in every way, having wrapped yourself up; and quickly, when you fall into a difficulty, spring to another mental contrivance. But let delightful sleep be absent from your eyes.

Attatai! attatai!

What ails you? why are you distressed?

Wretched man, I am perishing! The Corinthians,4 coming out from the bed, are biting me, and devouring my sides, and drinking up my life-blood, and tearing away my testicles, and digging through my breech, and will5 annihilate me.

Do not now be very grievously distressed.

Why, how, when my money is gone, my complexion gone, my life gone, and my slipper gone? And furthermore in addition to these evils, with singing the night-watches,6 I am almost gone myself. [Re-enter Socrates.]

Ho you! what are you about? Are you not meditating?

I? Yea, by Neptune!

And what, pray, have you thought?

Whether any bit of me will be left by the bugs.

You will perish most wretchedly.

But, my good friend, I have already perished.

You must not give in, but must wrap yourself up; for you have to discover a device for abstracting, and a means of cheating. [Walks up and down while Strepsiades wraps himself up in the blankets.]

Ah me! would, pray, some one would throw over me a swindling contrivance from the sheep-skins.1

Come now; I will first see this fellow, what he is about. Ho you! are you asleep?

No; by Apollo, I am not!

Have you got any thing?

No; by Jupiter, certainly not!

Nothing at all?

Nothing, except what I have in my right hand.

Will you not quickly cover yourself up, and think of something?

About what? for do you tell me this, O Socrates!

Do you, yourself, first find out and state what you wish.

You have heard a thousand times what I wish. About the interest; so that I may pay no one.

Come then, wrap yourself up, and having given your mind play2 with subtilty, revolve your affairs by little and little, rightly distinguishing and examining.

Ah me, unhappy man!

Keep quiet; and if you be puzzled in any one of your conceptions, leave it and go; and then set your mind in motion again, and lock it up.1

(in great glee). O dearest little Socrates!

What, old man?

I have got a device for cheating them of the interest.

Exhibit it.

Now tell me this, pray; if I were to purchase a Thessalian witch, and draw down the moon by night, and then shut it up, as if it were a mirror, in a round crest-case, and then carefully keep it—

What good, pray, would this do you?

What? If the moon were to rise no longer any where, I should not pay the interest.

Why so, pray?

Because the money is lent out by the month.

Capital! But I will again propose to you another clever question. If a suit of five talents should be entered against you, tell me how you would obliterate it.

How? how? I do not know; but I must seek.

Do not then always revolve your thoughts about yourself; but slack away your mind into the air, like a cockchafer tied with a thread by the foot.

I have found a very clever method of getting rid of my suit, so that you yourself2 would acknowledge it.

Of what description?3

Have you ever seen this stone in the chemists’ shops, the beautiful and transparent one, from which they kindle fire?

Do you mean the burning-glass?4

I do. Come, what would you say, pray, if I were to take this, when the clerk was entering the suit, and were to stand at a distance, in the direction of the sun, thus, and melt out the letters of my suit?

Cleverly done, by the Graces!

Oh! how I am delighted, that a suit of five talents has been cancelled!

Come now, quickly seize upon this.

What?

How, when engaged in a lawsuit,1 you could overturn the suit, when you were about to be cast, because you had no witnesses.

Most readily and easily.

Tell me, pray.

Well now, I tell you. If, while one suit was still pending, before mine was called on, I were to run away and hang myself.

You talk nonsense.

By the gods would I! for no one will bring an action against me when I am dead.2

You talk nonsense. Begone; I can’t teach you any longer.

Why so?3 Yea, by the gods, O Socrates!

You straightway forget whatever you learn. For, what now was the first thing you were taught? Tell me.

Come, let me see: nay, what was the first?4 What Edition: current; Page: [150] was the first? Nay, what was the thing in which we knead our flour? Ah me! what was it?

Will you not pack off to the devil, you most forgetful and most stupid old man?

Ah me, what then, pray, will become of me, wretched man? For I shall be utterly undone, if I do not learn to ply the tongue. Come, oh, ye Clouds, give me some good advice.

We, old man, advise you, if you have a son grown up, to send him to learn in your stead.

Well, I have a fine handsome son, but he is not willing to learn. What must I do?1

But do you permit him?2

Yes, for he is robust in body, and in good health and is come of the high-plumed dames of Cœsyra. I will go for him, and if he be not willing, I will certainly drive him from my house. [To Socrates.] Go in and wait for me a short time. [Exit.]

Do you perceive that you are soon about to obtain the greatest benefits through us alone of the gods? For this man is ready to do every thing that you bid him. But you, while the man is astounded and evidently elated, having perceived it, will quickly fleece him to the best of your power.3 [Exit Socrates.] For matters of this sort are somehow accustomed to turn the other way. [Enter Strepsiades and Phidippides.]

By Mist,4 you certainly shall not stay here any longer! but go and gnaw the columns of Megacles.

My good sir, what is the matter with you, O father! You are not in your senses, by Olympian Jupiter!

See, see! “Olympian Jupiter!” What folly! To think of your believing in Jupiter,1 as old as you are!

Why, pray, did you laugh at this?

Reflecting that you are a child, and have antiquated notions. Yet, however, approach, that you may know more; and I will tell you a thing, by learning which2 you will be a man. But see that you do not teach this to any one.

Well, what is it?

You swore now by Jupiter.

I did.

Seest thou, then, how good a thing is learning? There is no Jupiter, O Phidippides!

Who then?

Vortex reigns,3 having expelled Jupiter.

Bah! Why do you talk foolishly?

Be assured that it is so.

Who says this?

Socrates the Melian,4 and Chærephon, who knows the footmarks of fleas.

Have you arrived at such a pitch of phrensy,5 that you believe madmen?

Speak words of good omen, and say nothing bad of clever men and wise; of whom, through frugality, none ever shaved or anointed himself, or went to a bath to wash6 himself; while you squander my property in bathing, as if I Edition: current; Page: [152] were already dead. But go as quickly as possible and learn instead of1 me.

What good could2 any one learn from them?

What, really! Whatever wisdom there is amongst men. And you will know yourself, how ignorant3 and stupid you are. But wait for me here a short time. [Runs off.]

Ah me! what shall I do, my father being crazed? Shall I bring him into court and convict him of lunacy, or shall I give information of his madness to the coffin-makers? [Re-enter Strepsiades with a cock under one arm and a hen under the other.]

Come, let me see; what do you consider this to be? tell me.

Alectryon.

Right. And what this?

Alectryon.

Both the same? You are very ridiculous. Do not do so, then, for the future; but call this ἀλεκτρύαινα, and this one ἀλέκτωϱ.

Ἀλεκτρύαινα! Did you learn these clever things by going in just now to the Titans?4

And many others too; but whatever I learnt on each occasion I used to forget immediately, through length of years.

Is it for this reason, pray, you have also lost your cloak?

I have not lost it; but have studied it5 away.

What have you made of your slippers, you foolish man?

I have expended them, like Pericles,6 for needful Edition: current; Page: [153] purposes. Come, move, let us go. And then if you obey your father, go wrong if you like.1 I also know that I formerly obeyed you, a lisping child of six years old, and bought you a go-cart at the Diasia, with the first obolus I received from the Heliæa.2

You will assuredly some time at length3 be grieved at this.

It is well done of you that you obeyed. Come hither, come hither, O Socrates! come forth, for I bring to you this son of mine, having persuaded him against his will. [Enter Socrates.]

For he is still childish, and not used to the baskets here.

You would yourself be used4 to them if you were hanged.

A mischief take you! do you abuse your teacher?

“Were hanged” quoth ’a! how sillily he pronounced it, and with lips wide apart! How can this youth ever learn an acquittal from a trial or a legal summons, or persuasive5 refutation? And yet Hyperbolus learnt this at the cost of a talent.

Never mind; teach him. He is elever by nature. Indeed, from his earliest years, when he was a little fellow only so big, he was wont to form houses and carve ships within-doors, and make little waggons of leather, and make frogs out of pomegranate-rinds, you can’t think how cleverly.1 But see that he learns those two causes; the better, whatever it may be; and the worse, which, by maintaining what is unjust, overturns the better. If not both, at any rate the unjust one by all means.2

He shall learn it himself from the two causes in person.3 [Exit Socrates.]

I will take my departure. Remember this now, that he is to be able to reply to all just arguments. [Exit Strepsiades, and enter Just Cause and Unjust Cause.]

Come hither! show yourself to the spectators, although being audacious.5

Go whither you please; for I shall far rather do for you, if I speak before a crowd.6

You destroy me? Who are you?7

A cause.

Aye, the worse.

But I conquer you, who say that you are better than I.

By doing what clever trick?

By discovering new contrivances.

For these innovations flourish by the favour of these silly persons.1

No; but wise persons.

I will destroy you miserably.

Tell me, by doing what?

By speaking what is just.

But I will overturn them by contradicting them; for I deny that justice even exists at all.

Do you deny that it exists?

For come, where is it?

With the gods.

How then, if justice exists, has Jupiter not perished, who bound his own father?

Bah! this profanity now is spreading!2 Give me a basin.

You are a dotard and absurd.

You are debauched and shameless.

You have spoken roses of me.

And a dirty lickspittle.

You crown me with lilies.

And a parricide.

You don’t know that you are sprinkling me with gold.

Certainly not so formerly, but with lead.3

But now this is an ornament to me.

You are very impudent.4

And you are antiquated.

And through you, no one of our youths is willing to Edition: current; Page: [156] go to school; and you will be found out some time or other by the Athenians, what sort of doctrines you teach the simple-minded.

You are shamefully squalid.

And you are prosperous. And yet1 formerly you were a beggar, saying that you were the Mysian Telephus,2 and gnawing the maxims of Pandeletus out of your little wallet.

Oh, the wisdom—

Oh, the madness—

Which you have mentioned.

And of your city, which supports you who ruin her youths.

You shan’t teach this youth, you old dotard.3

Yes, if he is to be saved, and not merely to practise loquacity.

(to Phidippides). Come hither, and leave him to rave.

You shall howl, if you lay your hand on him.

Cease from contention and railing. But show to us, you, what you used to teach the men of former times, and you, the new system of education; in order that, having heard you disputing, he may decide and go to the school of one or the other.

I am willing to do so.

I also am willing.

Come now, which of the two shall speak first?

I will give him the precedence; and then, from these things which he adduces, I will shoot him dead with new words and thoughts. And at last, if he mutter, he shall be destroyed, being stung in his whole face and his two eyes by my maxims, as if by bees.

Now the two, relying on very dexterous arguments and thoughts, and sententious maxims, will show which of them shall appear superior in argument. For now the whole Edition: current; Page: [157] crisis of wisdom1 is here laid before them; about which my friends have a very great contest. But do you, who adorned our elders with many virtuous manners, utter the voice in which you rejoice, and declare your nature.

I will, therefore, describe the ancient system of education, how it was ordered, when I flourished in the advocacy of justice, and temperance was the fashion. In the first place it was incumbent that no one should hear the voice of a boy uttering a syllable; and next, that those from the same quarter of the town should march in good order through the streets to the school of the Harp-master, naked, and in a body, even if it were to snow as thick as meal. Then again, their master2 would teach them, not sitting cross-legged, to learn by rote a song, either “Παλλάδα3 περσέπολιν δεινὰν,” or “τηλέποϱόν τι βόαμα,” raising to a higher pitch4 the harmony which our fathers transmitted to us. But if any of them were to play the buffoon, or turn any quavers, like these difficult turns the present artists make after the manner of Phrynis,5 he used to be thrashed, being beaten with many blows,6 as banishing the Muses. And it behoved the boys, while sitting in the school of the Gymnastic-master, to cover7 the thigh, so that they might exhibit nothing Edition: current; Page: [158] indecent to those outside; then, again, after rising from the ground, to sweep the sand together, and to take care not to leave an impression of the person for their lovers. And no boy used in those days to anoint himself below the navel: so that their bodies wore the appearance of blooming health. Nor used he to go to his lover, having made up his voice in an effeminate tone, prostituting himself with his eyes. Nor used it to be allowed when one was dining to take the head of a radish, or to snatch from their seniors dill or parsley, or to eat fish, or to giggle, or1 to keep the legs crossed.

Aye, antiquated and Dipolia-like, and full of grasshoppers, and of Cecydes,2 and of the Buphonian festival!

Yet certainly these are those principles by which my system of education nurtured the men who fought at Marathon. But you teach the men of the present day, from their earliest years, to be wrapped up in himatia; so that I am choked, when at the Panathenaia a fellow, holding his shield before his person, neglects Tritogenia, when they ought to dance. Wherefore, O youth, choose, with confidence, me, the better cause, and you will learn to hate the Agora, and to refrain from baths, and to be ashamed at what is disgraceful, and to be enraged if any one jeer you, and to rise up from seats before your seniors when they approach, and not to behave ill towards your parents, and to do nothing else that is base, because you are to form in your mind an image of Modesty:3 and not to dart into the house of a dancing woman, Edition: current; Page: [159] lest, while gaping after these things, being struck with an apple by a wanton, you should be damaged in your reputation: and not to contradict your father in any thing; nor by calling him Iapetus, to reproach him with the ills of age, by which you were reared in your infancy.

If you shall believe him in this, O youth, by Bacchus, you will be like the sons of Hippocrates,1 and they will call you a booby.

Yet certainly shall you spend your time in the gymnastic schools, sleek and blooming; not chattering in the market-place rude jests, like the youths of the present day; nor dragged into court for a petty suit, greedy, petty-fogging, knavish; but you shall descend to the Academy and run races beneath the sacred olives along with some modest compeer, crowned with white reeds, redolent of yew, and careless ease, and of leaf-shedding white poplar, rejoicing in the season of spring, when the plane-tree whispers to the elm. If you do these things which I say, and apply your mind to these, you will ever have a stout chest, a clear complexion, broad shoulders, a little tongue, large hips, little lewdness. But if you practise what the youths of the present day do, you will have, in the first place, a pallid complexion, small shoulders, a narrow chest, a large tongue, little hips, great lewdness, a long psephism; and this deceiver will persuade you to consider every thing that is base to be honourable, and what is honourable to be base; and, in addition to this, he will fill2 you with the lewdness of Antimachus.

O thou that practisest3 most renowned high-towering Edition: current; Page: [160] wisdom! how sweetly does a modest grace attend your words! Happy, therefore, were they who lived in those days, in the times of former men! In reply, then, to these, O thou that hast a dainty-seeming muse, it behoveth thee to say something new; since the man has gained renown. And it appears you have need of powerful arguments against him, if you are to conquer the man, and not incur laughter.

And yet I was choking in my heart, and was longing to confound all these with contrary maxims. For I have been called among the deep thinkers the “worse cause,” on this very account, that I first contrived how to speak against both law and justice: and this art is worth more than ten thousand staters,1 that one should choose the worse cause, and nevertheless be victorious. But mark how I will confute the system of education on which he relies, who says, in the first place, that he will not permit you to be washed with warm water. And yet, on what principle do you blame the warm baths?

Because it is most vile, and makes a man cowardly.

Stop! For immediately I seize and hold you by the waist without escape. Come, tell me, which of the sons of Jupiter do you deem to have been the bravest in soul, and to have undergone2 most labours?

I consider no man superior to Hercules.

Where, pray, did you ever see cold Heraclean baths? And yet, who was more valiant than he?

These are the very things which make the bath full of youths always chattering all day long, but the palæstras empty.

You next find fault with their living in the market-place; but I commend it. For if it had been bad, Homer would never have been for representing Nestor as an orator; nor all the other wise men. I will return, then, from thence to the tongue, which this fellow says our youths ought not to exercise, while I maintain they should. And, again, he says Edition: current; Page: [161] they ought to be modest: two very great evils. For tell me to whom you have ever seen any good accrue through modesty; and confute me by your words.

To many. Peleus,1 at any rate, received his sword on account of it.

A sword? Marry, he got a pretty piece of luck, the poor wretch! while Hyperbolus,2 he of the lamps, got more than many talents by his villany, but, by Jupiter, no sword!

And Peleus married Thetis, too, through his modesty.

And then she went off, and left him; for he was not lustful, nor an agreeable bed-fellow to spend the night with. Now a woman delights in being wantonly treated. But you are an old dotard. For (to Phidippides) consider, O youth, all that attaches to modesty, and of how many pleasures you are about to be deprived—of women, of games at cottabus, of dainties, of drinking-bouts, of giggling. And yet, what is life worth to you, if you be deprived of these enjoyments? Well, I will pass from thence to the necessities of our nature. You have gone astray, you have fallen in love, you have been guilty of some adultery, and then have been caught. You are undone, for you are unable to speak. But if you associate with me, indulge your inclination, dance, laugh, and think nothing disgraceful. For if you should happen to be detected as an adulterer, you will make this reply to him, “that you have done him no injury:” and then refer him to Jupiter,3 how Edition: current; Page: [162] even he is overcome by love and women. And yet, how could you, who are a mortal, have greater power than a god?

But what, if he should suffer the radish through obeying you, and be depillated with hot ashes? What argument will he be able to state, to prove that he is not a blackguard?

And if he be a blackguard, what harm will he suffer?

Nay, what could he ever suffer still greater than this?

What then will you say, if you be conquered by me in this.

I will be silent: what else can I do?

Come now, tell me; from what class do the advocates come?

From the blackguards.

I believe you. What then? from what class do the tragedians come?

From the blackguards.

You say well. But from what class do the public orators come?