Well! if one had summoned them to the temple of Bacchus,1 or Pan, or Colias,2 or Genetyllis, it would not even have been possible to pass through by reason of the kettle-drums: but now not a single woman is present here; saving that my neighbour here is coming forth. [Eetnr Calonice.] Welcome, Calonice!

And you too, Lysistrata! Why are you troubled? Be not of a sad countenance, child! for it does not beseem you to arch3 your eyebrows.

I am inflamed in my heart, Calonice, and am greatly vexed on account of us women, because we are considered among men to be bad;—

For,4 by Jove, we are so!

—and when it was told5 them to meet together here, Edition: current; Page: [390] to deliberate about no small matter, they sleep, and have not come.

But, my dearest, they will come. Of a truth women find it difficult to get out. For one of us goes poking1 about her husband, another wakens the servant, another puts the child to bed, another washes hers, another feeds hers with morsels.

But indeed there were other matters more important for them than these.

What is the matter, dear Lysistrata, for which you summon us women? What is the affair? Of what size is it?

Great.

Is it also thick?2

And thick, by Jove.

Why, how then have we not come?3

This is not the fashion of it; for, if it had been so, we should have quickly assembled. But there is a certain affair which has been investigated by me, and revolved with much sleeplessness.

Doubtless the matter revolved is somewhat subtle.

Aye, so subtle, that the safety of all Greece depends upon4 the women.

Upon the women? Why, it depended5 on a slight thing then.

Since6 the affairs of the state depend upon us, either that there should be no longer any7 Peloponnesians—

Then, by Jove, ’tis best they should no longer exist.

—and that all the Bœotians perish utterly.1

Not all, pray; exempt the eels.2

But about Athens I will utter no such ill language.3 Do you conjecture something4 else! If the women assemble here, both those from Bœotia, and those from the Peloponnese, and we from Attica, we shall save Greece in common.

What prudent or brilliant action could women accomplish? we, who sit decked5 out, wearing saffron-coloured robes, and beautified, and wearing loose Cimmerian vests, and sandals?

For6 in truth these are even the very things, which I expect will save us; the little saffron-coloured robes, and the unguents, and the sandals, and the alkanet root, and the transparent vests.

In what manner, pray?

So that none of the men of the present day lift a spear against each other—

Then, by the two goddesses, I’ll get me a saffron robe dyed.

—nor take a shield—

I’ll put on a Cimmerian vest.

—nor little sword.

I’ll get sandals.

Ought not, then, the women to have been present?

No, by Jove, but to have come flying long ago.1

Nay, my dear,2 you’ll see them thorough Attic—doing every thing later than they ought. Yet not even from the people of the sea-coast3 is any woman present, nor from Salamis.

But those, I well know, have crossed over at daybreak in the swift boats.

Nor have the Acharnian women4 come, whom I expected and counted on to come hither the first.

At any rate the wife of Theogenes5 consulted the statue of Hecate, with the intention of coming hither. But see! here now are some coming! and, again, some others are coming! Hah! hah! Whence are they?

From Anagyrus.

Aye, by Jove! In sooth methinks Anagyrus6 has been set in motion. [Enter Myrrhina.]

Surely we have not come too late, Lysistrata? What do you say? Why are you silent?

I do not commend you, Myrrhina, who have only now come about so important a matter.

I had great difficulty in finding my girdle in the dark. But if it be very pressing,1 tell it to us now we are present.

No, by Jove; but let us wait for a little while for the women from Bœotia and from the Peloponnese to come.

You say far better. But see! here now’s Lampito approaching! [Enter Lampito.]

O dearest Laconian! welcome, Lampito! How your beauty, dearest, shines forth! What2 a fresh colour you have! how vigorous your body is! You could even throttle a bull.

I fully believe so, by the two goddesses! I exercise myself and spring against my buttocks.

What beautiful breasts3 you have!

Upon my word you handle me like a victim.

But from what country is this other young woman?

By the two goddesses, a Bœcotian of rank is coming to you. [Enter Bœotian.]

Aye, by Jove, O Bœotian, with a beautiful bosom.4

And, by Jove, with the hair very neatly plucked out.

Who is the other girl? [Enter Corinthian.]

A good one, by the two goddesses; but a Corinthian.

Aye, by Jove, she is evidently good,5—see here! in these parts!

But who brought together this company of women?

I here!

Then say6 to us what you wish.

Yea, by Jove, my dear woman.

Mention, then, the important business, whatever this is.

I will now mention it. But before I mention it, I will ask you this small question.

Whatever you please.

Do you not long for the fathers of your children, who are absent on military service? for I well know that the husband of each one of you is abroad.1

In truth my husband has been absent, O unhappy man, five months in Thrace, guarding Eucrates.2

And mine has been absent seven whole months in Pylos.

And mine, even if he ever does depart from the ranks,3 having taken up his shield, flies off and disappears.

But not even a spark of a paramour is left; for since the Milesians4 betrayed us, I have not seen a thing of the kind, which might have consoled us in the absence of our husbands. Would you be willing, therefore, with me to put an end to the war, if I were to find a contrivance?

Yea, by the two goddesses, I would be willing, if I were obliged even to pawn this upper garment, and drink the proceeds this very day.5

Methinks I would even cut myself in half like a turbot and give6 it away.

And I would even go up to Taygetus, if there1 I were about to get a sight of peace.

I will2 mention it; for the matter must not remain concealed. We, O women, if we are to compel the men to be at peace, must abstain—

From what? tell us!

Will you do it then?

We will do it, even if we must die.

Then we must abstain3 from the marriage-bed. Why do you turn away from me? Whither are you going? He you! why do you compress your lips and shake your heads at me? Why is your colour changed? Why is the tear let fall? Will you do it, or will you not do it? or what do you purpose4 to do?

I cannot do it; let the war go on!

Neither can I, by Jove! let the war go on.5

You say this, you turbot? And yet,6 just now, you said you would even cut yourself in half.

Any thing else, any thing else, whatever you wish. I am willing to walk even through fire, if I must: this7 rather than the loss of conjugal rights; for there’s nothing like them, dear Lysistrata.

(to Myrrhina). What, then, do you say?

I also am willing to walk through fire.

Oh, our entire race, devoted to lewdness! No wonder tragedies8 are made from us; for we are nothing but “Neptune and a boat.”9 But, my dear Laconian, vote Edition: current; Page: [396] with me! for if only you side with me, we may yet restors the affair.

By the two goddesses, women find it hard to sleep alone without a husband. Yet still1 we must do it, for there is great need of peace.

O thou dearest, and the only woman out of these!

But if we were to abstain as much as possible from what2 you now mention, (which may heaven forefend!) would peace be made aught the more for this?

Aye, much, by the two goddesses! For if we were to sit3 at home painted, and approach them lightly clad in our vests of fine linen, having the hairs plucked off our bosoms, the men would become enamoured, and desire to lie with us; and if we were not to come nigh them, but abstain, they would quickly make peace, I well know.4

Of a truth Menelaus, when he had taken a side glance at the breasts5 of Helen when naked, threw away his sword, I believe.

But what, my friend, if our husbands leave us?

The saying of Pherecrates,6 “to flay a skinned dog.”

These similes are idle talk. If they should lay hold of us and drag us to the chamber by force?

Do you hold on by the doors.

But what if they beat us?

You must be niggardly of conjugal rights; for there is no pleasure in these acts which are accomplished by force Besides, you must pain them; and be assured they will very soon give up. For a man1 will never be delighted, unless it suits the woman.2

If in truth you two are decided about this, we also agree.3

And so we will persuade our husbands every where justly to keep peace without deceit. In what way, however, could4 any one, on the other hand, persuade the unstable crowd of the Athenians not to talk nonsense?

We of course will persuade our party.

Not as long as the triremes are in readiness5 and Edition: current; Page: [398] the inexhaustible sum of money is in the temple of the goddess

But this also has been well provided for; for to-day we shall seize upon the Acropolis. For orders have been given to the oldest to do this,1 while we arrange these matters, to seize upon the Acropolis while pretending to sacrifice.

It may be altogether well,2 for so you represent it.

Why then, Lampito, do we not swear to these things as soon as possible, that they may be inviolable?

Produce the oath, that we may swear.

You say well. Where is the policewoman?3 Whither are you staring? Set the shield before us upside down; and let some one give me the sacrificial parts.

Lysistrata, what oath in the world will you make us swear?

What? Over a shield, slaying sheep, as they say Æschylus4 once did.

Nay, do not swear anything about peace, O Lysistrata, over a shield.

What, then, should the oath be?

If we were to get a white horse5 from some quarter and sacrifice it as a victim.

For what purpose a white horse?

How then6 shall we swear?

I will tell you, by Jove, if you wish. Let us place a large black cup upside down,7 and slaughter a Thasian jar of wine, and swear over the cup—to pour no water in.

O earth! I commend the oath prodigiously.1

Let some one bring a cup from within and a jar.

O dearest women, what a vast jar!2 Any one would be immediately exhilarated if he got this.

Set this down and take hold of the boar.3 Mistress Persuasion,4 and Cup sacred to friendship, receive the victims, being friendly to the women.5 [Calonice here pours the wine into the cup.]

The blood is of a good colour and bubbles out well.

(stooping and smelling at the wine). Moreover it smells sweet too, by Castor!

Permit me, women, to swear the first. [Tries to drink out of the jar.]

No, by Venus, unless you obtain it by lot.

Lampito, do all of you lay hold6 on the cup, and let one say in behalf of the rest of you whatever I say; and you shall swear to these things, and abide by them. “There is no one, either paramour or husband”—

“There is no one, either paramour or husband”—

“Who shall approach me in an amorous mood.” Say it!

“Who shall approach me in an amorous mood.” Bless me! Lysistrata, my knees sink under me.

“But I will spend my life at home in1 chastity”—

“But I will spend my life at home in chastity”—

“Wearing a saffron-coloured robe, and decked out”—

“Wearing a saffron-coloured robe, and decked out”—

“So that my husband may be as much as possible enamoured”—

“So that my husband may be as much as possible enamoured”—

“And I will never willingly comply with my husband”—

“And I will never willingly comply with my husband”—

“But if he force me by violence against my will”—

“But if he force me by violence against my will”—

“I will be niggardly of conjugal rights and will not indulge him”—

“I will be niggardly of conjugal rights and will not indulge him”—

“I will not raise my slippers towards the roof”—

“I will not raise my slippers towards the roof”—

“I will not stand like a lioness upon a cheese-scraper”—

“I will not stand like a lioness upon a cheese-scraper”—

“If2 I abide by these, may I drink from hence”—

“If I abide by these, may I drink from hence”—

“But if I violate them, may the cup be3 filled with water”—

“But if I violate them, may the cup be filled with water”—

Do you all swear to these?

Yea, by Jove!

Come, let me dedicate this. [Takes a drink.]

Your share only, my dear, that from the first we may be friends1 of each other. [The goblet is passed round. A cry of women is heard behind the scene.]

What shout is that?

The very thing2 I spoke of! for the women have already seized upon the Acropolis of the goddess. Come, Lampito, do you go and arrange well your affairs, and leave these here with us as3 hostages; and let us, along with the other women who are in the citadel,4 go in and help to put in the bolts.

Do you not think, then, that the men will immediately render joint aid against us?

I care little for them. For they will not come with either so great threats or so much fire as to open these gates except upon the terms which we mentioned.

Never, by Venus! For we women should be called unconquerable and abominable to no purpose. [Enter chorus of old men carrying billets of wood and pans of charcoal.]

Advance, Draces, lead on slowly, although5 you are pained in your shoulder with carrying so great a weight of a trunk of fresh olive. Of a truth there are many unexpected things in long life, alas! for who would ever have expected, O Strymodorus,6 to hear that women whom we Edition: current; Page: [402] supported at home, a manifest pest, would get possession1 of the sacred image, and seize upon my Acropolis, and also make fast the Propylæa2 with bolts and bars? But let us hasten to the citadel as soon as possible, O Philurgus, so that we may place these trunks round about them, as many as began and prosecuted this business, and heap up one pyre, and with our own hands set fire to them all with one vote; and the wife3 of Lycon the first. For, by Ceres, she shall not laugh at us, while I am alive! Since not even Cleomenes,4 who was the first that seized upon it, departed scot-free;5 but nevertheless, though breathing Laconian fury, he went off, having delivered up his arms6 to me, with a very small little cloak, dirty, squalid, unkempt, unwashed for seven years. So savagely did I besiege that noted7 man, sleeping at the doors seventeen8 deep. And shall I not then being present restrain from so great daring these enemies to Euripides and to all the gods? No longer then may my trophy9 be in Tetrapolis! Edition: current; Page: [403] But indeed the steep part itself of my road towards the citadel, whither1 I am hastening, remains for me to traverse. And we must manage to draw this at length, without a pack ass. How the yoke2 has heavily pressed my shoulder! But nevertheless we must go, and must blow up the fire, est at the end of our journey it be extinguished without our perceiving it. [Blows at the coals.] Faugh! faugh! Oh! oh, what a smoke! O king Hercules, how dreadfully it bites my eyes, like a mad dog, having assailed me from the pan! and this fire is by all means Lemnian3 too. For otherwise it would never thus have bitten my sore eyes with its teeth. Hasten forwards to the citadel, and assist the goddess; or when shall we aid her better than now, Laches? [Blows at the coa’s.] Faugh! faugh! Oh! oh, what4 a smoke! By the favour of the gods, this fire is awake and alive. Should we not therefore, if we were first to deposit the yoke here, and stick the torch of vine-wood into the pan and kindle it, then burst in the door like a ram?5 And if the women do not undo the bolts when we call, we must set fire to the doors and oppress them with the smoke. Now let us deposit our load. [Blows at the coals.] Oh, what a smoke! Bless my soul! Who of the generals at Samos6 will help with the yoke? This has now ceased to gall my back. It is your business, O pan,7 Edition: current; Page: [404] to kindle your cinders, so that you may first bring me the torch alight. Mistress Victory, assist us, and let us set up1 a trophy over the now present audacity of the women in the citadel. [Enter chorus of women coming out of the citadel.]

Women, methinks I perceive flame and smoke as of a fire burning. We must hasten more quickly. Fly, fly, Nicodice, before that Calyce and Critylla, being blown upon from all sides,2 be set on fire by grievous laws and mischievous old men! But I am afraid of this. Surcly I am not coming3 to the rescue too late? For now, having filled my bucket at the fountain early in the morning, with difficulty, by reason of the crowd and tumult and clatter of pitchers, jostling with women-servants and runaway slaves, having brought it eagerly, I come with water to the rescue of my fellow tribes-women being on fire. For I heard that old dotards were coming, carrying logs, about three talents in weight, as if about to wait upon persons at the bath,4 threatening most dreadful words, that it behoved them to burn the abominable women to a cinder with fire; whom, O goddess, may I never see set on fire, but to have delivered Greece and the citizens from war and madness! for which purpose, O guardian of the city with golden crest, they occupied thy seat. And I invoke thee as our ally, O Tritogenia, if any5 man burn them Edition: current; Page: [405] from below, to bring water along with us! Let be! What’s1 this? O men laboriously wicked! for never would good or pious men have been for doing this.

This affair has come unexpected for us to see.2 See! here again’s a swarm of women coming out of doors to the rescue! [They make a retrograde movement.]

Why do you insult3 us? We don’t4 seem to be many, I suppose? And yet you don’t see as yet the ten-thousandth part of us.

O Phædrias, shall we suffer these to prate so much? Ought one not to have broken one’s cudgel about them with beating them?

Let us also now deposit our pitchers on the ground; so that, if any one lay his hand upon us, this may not be a hinderance. [They lay down their pitchers.]

If, by Jove, one had already struck their jaws twice or thrice, like those5 of Bupalus, they would not have a voice.

Well now, there! let any one strike me! I’ll stand and offer6 myself; and no other bitch shall ever lay hold of your nose.7

If you will not be silent, I’ll beat and drive away your8 old age.

Come forward and only touch Stratyllis with your finger!

But what, if I thump her with my fists? what mischief1 will you do to me?

I’ll bite and tear out your lungs and entrails.2

There’s no poet wiser3 than Euripides; for there’s no creature so shameless4 as women.

Let us take up the pitcher of water, O Rhodippe.

Why, O thou hateful to the gods, hast thou come hither with water?

Why then have you come with fire, you old man nigh to the grave?5 With the intention of setting yourself on fire?

I have come in order that I may heap up a pyre and set fire to your friends underneath.

And I, that I might extinguish6 your pyre with this.

Will you extinguish my fire?

The deed itself7 will soon show.

I don’t know but I’ll scorch you with8 this torch just as I am.

If you happen to have any soap,1 I’ll provide a bath.

You a bath for me, you filthy wretch?

And that, too,2 a nuptial one.

Did you hear her audacity?

For I am free.

I’ll stop you from your present clamour.

But you shall no longer sit in the Heliæa.3

Set fire to her hair!

Thy task,4 O Achelöus! [The women empty their buckets on the men’s heads.]

Ah me, miserable!

Was it hot? [Another volley of buckets.]

Why, hot? Will you not stop? What are you doing?

I am watering you, that you may grow.

But I am parched5 up and shaking already.

Therefore, since you have fire, you shall warm yourself. [Enter committee-man.6]

Has the wantonness of the women burst forth, and their drumming, and their frequent orgies,7 and this mourning on the roofs for Adonis,8 which I once9 heard when I was in Edition: current; Page: [408] the Assembly. Demostratus (a plague take1 him!) was advising to sail to Sicily; but his wife, dancing, cries, “Ah! ah, for Adonis!” And Demostratus was advising2 to enlist Zacynthian hoplites; but his wife upon the roof, being rather tipsy, tells them to mourn for Adonis. But he, Cholozyges, hateful to the gods and abominable, overpowered her. Such are their acts of wantonness.3

What then would you say,4 if you were also to hear of the insolence of these? who have both insulted us in other respects, and drenched us with their pitchers, so that we may wring our garments, as if we had made water in them.

Justly, by the briny Neptune! For when we ourselves join with the women in villany, and teach them to be licentious, such5 counsels spring from them; we, who speak in this wise in the workmen’s6 shops, “Goldsmith, as my wife was dancing in the evening, the clasp of the necklace you7 made dropped out of the hole. For my part, I must sail to Salamis; but do you, if you have leisure, come by all8 Edition: current; Page: [409] means towards evening and fit in the clasp1 for her.” And some other one speaks after this manner to the shoemaker, a youth, but able to do a man’s work, “Shoemaker, the cross-straps pinch the little toe2 of my wife’s foot, since it is tender. Come you, therefore, at noon and loosen this, so that it may be wider.” Such things concur in such3 affairs, when I, who am a Committee-man, who have provided spars for oars,4 am shut out5 from the gates by the women, now when there’s need of the money. But it’s no6 use to stand. Bring the levers, that I may restrain them from their insolence. Why do you gape, you wretch? Whither, again, are you staring, who do nothing but look after a tavern? Will you not place your levers under the gates and force your way on that side? and I will join in forcing this way. [Enter Lysistrata.]

Do not force7 with your levers! for I am coming forth of my own accord. What need is there of levers? For there is not more need of levers, than of sense and judgment.

What, really, you abominable creature? Where is the policeman? Seize her, and tie her hands behind her!

By Diana, if in truth he shall lay the tip of his hand upon me, he shall weep for it, policeman8 as he is! [Policemen draw back.]

Are you afraid, you fellow? Will you not seize her by the waist, and you with him, and bind her quickly?

By Pandrosus,1 if in truth you shall only lay your hand upon her, you shall be trampled on and ease yourself again!

“Shall ease yourself again,” quoth’a! Where is there another2 policeman? Bind this one the first, because she also chatters!

By Diana,3 if in truth you shall lay the tip of your hand upon her, you shall soon ask for a4 cupping-glass!

What’s this? Where is there a policeman?5 Lay hold on her! I will stop some of you from this going out.

By Diana, if in truth you shall approach her, I’ll pluck out the hairs that will make you scream!6 [Policemen run away.]

Ah me, unfortunate! The policeman has deserted7 me. But we must never be conquered by8 women. [Police come back.] Let us march against them, O policemen, in order of battle!

By the two goddesses, then you shall know that with us also there are four companies of warlike women within, fully armed!

Twist back their hands, policemen! [Policemen lay hands on the women.]

O allied women, run out from within, ye green-grocery-market-women, ye garlic-bread-selling-hostesses! Will ye not drag?1 Will ye not beat? Will ye not smite? Will ye not revile? Will ye not behave impudently? [Women rush in and drive off the policemen.] Stop! Retire! Do not despoil them!

Ah me, how miserably have my policemen2 fared!

Nay, what did you expect? Did you think you had come against some women-slaves, or do you suppose anger is not in women?

Aye, by Apollo, and very much too, if a tavern3 be near!

O commissioner of this land, who have wasted many words, why do you hold a parley with these wild beasts? Do you not know with what a bath these just now drenched us in our garments, and that too4 without lye?

But, my good sir, you ought not rashly to lay your hand upon your neighbours. But if you do this, you must have swelled eyes. For I am willing to sit modestly, like a virgin, offending no one here, nor even stirring a chip, unless one take my comb, like a wasp’s nest, and irritate me.

O Jupiter! what ever shall we make of these5 monsters? For these things are no longer bearable. But you must inquire into this casualty along with me, with whatever intent they seized upon the citadel, and for what purpose they seized upon the Acropolis on the mighty rock, not to be trodden, the sacred enclosure. But ask repeatedly, and do not be persuaded,6 and apply all tests. For it is disgraceful to leave such7 an affair as this untested, having given it up.

Well now, by Jove, I wish to learn this first from them; with what intent you shut up our citadel with your bolts.

That we might make the money safe, and that you might not fight on account of it.

Why, are1 we fighting on account of the money?

Aye, and all the other matters, too, have been thrown into confusion. For in order that Pisander2 might be able to steal, and those who aim at offices, they were always stirring up some commotion.3 Therefore let them do whatever they please, for that matter! for they shall no longer take out this money.

What will you do then?4

Ask me this? We will manage it.

Will you manage the money?

Why5 do you think this strange? Do we not wholly manage your domestic property also for you?

But the case is not the same.

How6 not the same?

We must carry on the war out7 of this money.

But in the first place there is no occasion for war.

Why, how otherwise shall we be saved?

We will save you.

You?

Aye, we to be sure.

A sad case indeed!

Be assured1 that you shall be saved, even if you do not wish.

You mention a shameful case.

You are indignant: but this must be done notwithstanding.

By Ceres, ’tis unjust!

We must save2 you, my friends.

Even if I don’t want?

Aye, so much the more, for that matter.

But how came you to care about war and peace?

We will tell you.

(with a significant motion of his fist). Tell me now quickly, that you may not get a beating!

Hear now, and try to restrain your hands!

But I am not able: for through my passion3 it is difficult to restrain them.

Then you shall suffer for it so much the more.

Croak this4 at yourself, old woman; but tell me your story.

I will do so. During the former war and former time, through our modesty, we bore with you5 men, whatever you did; for you did not allow us to mutter: and then you did not please us. But we perceived6 you very well; and oftentimes when we were at home we used7 to hear that you had determined some important matter badly; and then being pained internally,8 we used to ask you with a smile, “What Edition: current; Page: [414] has been determined by you to-day amongst the people1 to post up upon the pillar2 about peace?” “What’s that to you?” the man used to say; “will you not be silent?” And 1 used to be silent.

But I would never have been silent.

Aye, and you’d have howled too, if you were not silent.

So then I kept silence at home. We used to hear3 perhaps of some other more pernicious decree of yours; and then we used to ask, “How is it, husband, that you manage these matters so foolishly?” But he having looked askance at me used immediately to tell me that, “if I will not weave4 my warp, I should wail loudly in my head; but war shall be a care to men.”5

Rightly said of him, by Jove!

How6 rightly, you wretch? if not even when you were determining badly, it was permitted us to advise you. But7 when now we plainly heard you now saying in the streets, “Is there not a man in the country?” and some other said, “Certainly not, by Jove!” after this it was immediately determined by us women, being assembled, to save Greece in Edition: current; Page: [415] common. For why1 ought we to wait? If therefore you be willing to hear us in turn giving good advice, and to be silent in turn, as we were then, we would restore you.

You restore us? You mention a shameful case, and not to be endured by me.

Hold your tongue!

Must I hold my tongue for2 you, you abominable creature, and that too wearing a hood about your head? Then may I not live!

Well, if this be an obstacle to you, there! take this hood from me, and take and put it about your head, and then hold your tongue!—and this little basket! and then gird yourself up3 and card wool, munching beans!4 “but war shall be a care to women.”

Retire,5 O women, from your pitchers, in order that we also in turn may assist our friends. For I would never be tired with dancing, nor would exhausting6 weariness seize my knees. I am willing to venture7 everything with these in the cause of virtue, in whom is intellect, is beauty, is boldness, is wisdom, is prudent patriotism. Come, most courageous offspring of grandmothers, and of fruitful nettles, advance with vehemence,8 and do not yield! for you are now still running before the wind.

But if delightful Eros and the Cyprus-born Venus breathe desire upon our bosoms and our breasts, and then create in the men a pleasing passion and voluptuousness, I think that we shall some time be called amongst the Greeks Lysimachæ.9

By having done what?

If in the first place we put a stop to people lounging1 in the market-place with arms and acting madly.

Aye, by the Paphian Venus!

For now in truth in the pottery-market,2 and in the vegetable-market alike, they walk about throughout the market-place with arms, like Corybantes.

Yes, by Jove! for it becomes the brave.

And yet the affair is ridiculous, when a fellow with a shield and a Gorgon then3 purchases mackarel.

At all events, by Jove, I saw a man with long hair, a commander of cavalry, upon a horse putting pease-soup into his brazen helmet, which he had bought from an old woman. And another, again, a Thracian, shaking a shield and javelin like Tereus, frightened the woman that dealt in figs and swallowed the ripe ones.4

How then will you be able to allay many disturbed affairs in the country, and to put an end to them?

Very5 easily.

How? Show us!

Like as, when our thread is tangled, we take it in this way and draw it out with our spindles hither and thither, thus also will we put an end to this war, if you let us, having brought it to an end by means of embassies hither and thither.

Do6 you think, pray, to allay a dreadful state of Edition: current; Page: [417] affairs with your wool, and threads, and spindles, you silly women?

Aye, and if there was any sense in you, you would administer1 all your affairs after the fashion of our wool.

How, pray? Come, let me see!

In the first place it behoved you, as if washing away the dirt of a fleece in a bath, to flog the knaves headlong out of the city, and to pick out the briers; and to tear in pieces these who combine together and those who press themselves close together2 for the magistracies, and to pluck their heads;3 and then all to card public good-feeling into a basket, having mixed up4 both the resident-aliens and whatever stranger or friend there is with you, and whoever is indebted to the public, and to mix these up5 in one body; and, by Jove, to mark6 the states, as many as are colonies of this city, that these lie uncared for, like the pieces of wool, each apart by itself; and then, having taken the wool from all these, to bring it together, and collect it into one mass; and then to make a large ball; and then, out of this to weave a cloak for the people.

Is it not, therefore, shameful that these should cudgel7 these things and wind them off into a ball, who had not even any concern in the war at all?

And yet, O you utterly accursed, we bear more than twice as8 much of it as you do; who in the first instance bore sons and sent them forth as hoplites.9

Be silent, and do not remind1 us of our woes!

And then, when we ought to be cheered and enjoy our youth, we sleep alone on account of the expeditions.2 And our case I omit: but I am grieved for the maidens who grow old in their chambers.

Do not men, therefore, grow old as well?

But, by Jove, you do not mention a like case. For he, when he has come back, even though he be gray-headed, soon marries a young girl; but the woman’s time is short, and if she do not take advantage of it, no one is willing to marry her; but she sits looking for omens.3

But whoever is still able to act a manly part—

Why then4 do you not die? You shall have a little pig:5 you shall purchase a coffin: I will now knead you a honey-cake.6 Take this and crown yourself!

[Drenches him with water.]

And receive these7 from me!

[Drenches him.]

And take this crown!

[Drenches him.]

What is wanting? What do you desire? Go to the ship! Charon calls you,8 and you hinder him from setting sail.

Then is it not shameful that I should suffer these things? But, by Jove, I will show myself to the Committee forthwith, going as9 I am.

Will you lay a complaint10 against us, that we did not lay you out? But on the third day at any rate the sacrifices Edition: current; Page: [419] to the dead will come from us very early1 in the morning ready prepared.

[Exeunt Committee-man and attendants.]

It is his business to sleep no longer, who is free. But, sirs, let us strip2 and set to work at this affair! For already these matters appear to me to savour of more and greater deeds; and especially I scent the tyranny of Hippias;3 and I fear greatly lest some men of the Spartans, having assembled here in the house of Clisthenes,4 should by craft stir up the women hateful to the gods to seize upon our money, and our pay, whereby I lived. For surely it is shameful that these, women as they are, should now advise the citizens, and prate about a brazen shield, and besides5 reconcile us to the Lacedæmonians, to whom there’s no trusting,6 unless one can a gaping wolf. But these things, sirs, they have contrived for a tyranny. But over me they shall not tyrannize; for I will be on my guard, and will henceforth wear my sword in a myrtle-bough,7 and will lounge in the market-place Edition: current; Page: [420] in arms nigh the statue1 of Aristogiton, and will stand beside him thus;2 for that very destiny is mine,3 to smite the jaw of this old woman hateful to the gods.

Then your mother shall not recognise4 you when you enter the house. But, O dear matrons, let us first place these on the ground. For we, O all ye citizens, begin words serviceable to the state; naturally, since it reared me splendidly in luxury. As soon as5 I was seven years of age I carried the peplus; and then,6 when I was ten years of age, I was meal-grinder to Diana;7 and then I was Arctos8 at the Brauronia, wearing the saffron-coloured robe; and at length, when I was a beautiful girl, I carried the basket, wearing a chain of figs. Do I not then owe9 it to the state to give it some good advice? But if I am a woman, do not grudge me this,10 if I introduce something better than the present part of affairs. For I have a part in the contribution; for I contribute men. But you miserable old men have no part; for after you have expended11 your ancestral fund, as it is called, which you got from the Persians,12 you do not Edition: current; Page: [421] pay in turn your contributions. But moreover we are in danger of being ruined by you. Then ought you to grumble? But if you shall annoy me at all, I will strike your jaw with this untanned buskin.

Then are not these matters great insolence? and methinks the matter will increase still more. But whoever is a perfect man must repel the matter. Come, let us strip off our sleeveless coat, since it behoveth a man forthwith to savour of manhood; but it does not become him to be muffled up. But come, ye white-footed,1 now it behoveth us, who went to Lipsydrium,2 when as yet3 we were men, now it behoveth us to grow young again, and to make our whole body active,4 and to shake off this old age. For if any of us shall afford these if it were but a small handle,5 they will in no wise fail of assiduous handicraft; but they will both build ships, and furthermore attempt to fight by sea, and to sail against us, like Artemisia.6 But if they turn themselves to horsemanship, I strike the Knights off the list. For a woman is a creature most skilful in horsemanship and having a good seat.7 And she would not slip off when it runs. See the Amazons whom Micon painted8 on horseback fighting with the men! But we ought to take and fit this neck9 into the perforated stocks of all these.

By the two goddesses, if you shall provoke me, I will now let loose my passion,1 and will make you today call your fellow-tribesmen to your aid, being pommeled. But let us also,2 O women, speedily strip, so that we may savour of women angered even to biting.3 Now let any one come near me! in order that he may never eat garlic or black beans.4 Since, if you shall even merely speak ill of me,—for I am exceedingly angry,—I the beetle will deliver you like5 an eagle that is laying eggs. For I will not care for you, if my Lampito live, and the dear Theban girl, well-born6 Ismenia. For you will have no power, not even if you make decrees seven times, who, O wretch, wast hateful even7 to all your neighbours. Therefore also yesterday, when I was making a feast8 to Hecate, I invited from my neighbours a good and amiable girl as the companion of my children—an eel9 from Bœotia; but they said they would not send it, on account of your decrees. And you will not cease10 from these decrees, till some one, having taken you by the leg, take and break your neck. O thou11 authoress of this deed and design, why hast thou come to me from the house with a sad countenance?

Wicked women’s proceedings and the female mind make me down-hearted, and to walk up1 and down.

What do you say? what do you say?

The truth! the truth!

What is there alarming? Tell it to your own friends!

But it is disgraceful2 to mention, and difficult to keep silent.

Do not then conceal from me what ill we have suffered.

To speak in fewest words,3 we long for the men.

O Jupiter!

Why call on4 Jupiter? In truth this is so. Consequently I am no longer able to keep them from their husbands; for they are escaping by stealth. The first I caught widening the hole where the cave of Pan5 is; the other, again, creeping down by the pulley;6 the other deserting; the other one upon a sparrow, purposing now to fly down to the house of Orsilochus,7 I dragged down yesterday by the hair. And they keep making all sorts of excuses8 so as to depart home. In sooth, one of them is now coming. Hollo you! whither are you running? [A woman attempts to run past.]

I wish to go home; for my Milesian fleeces are being destroyed by the moths at home.

What9 moths? Will you not go back again?

But, by the two goddesses, I will return speedily, when I have only spread them out on the couch—

Don’t spread them out, or depart any whither!

Must I then suffer the fleeces to be destroyed?

Yes, if there be need of this.1 (1st woman goes back again.]

Ah me, miserable! miserable for my flax which I have left at home unhackled!

See! here’s another coming out for her unhackled flax!2 Come back again hither!

But, by Diana,3 I will return instantly when I have barked it?4

Don’t5 bark it! for if you begin this, another woman will wish to do the same. [2nd woman goes back again.]

O mistress6 Ilithyia, delay my parturition until I shall have gone to a place not hallowed!

Why do you talk this nonsense?

I shall bring forth immediately.

But you were not pregnant yesterday.

But to-day I am. Come, Lysistrata, send me home as soon as possible to the midwife!

What tale are you telling? What is this hard thing7 that you have?

A male child.

Not you, by Venus! except that8 you appear to have some hollow brazen vessel. I will know. [Feels her dress.] O you ridiculous! said you you were pregnant, when you had the sacred9 helmet?

And I am pregnant too, by Jove!

Why then had you this?

In order that, if my delivery should come upon Edition: current; Page: [425] me while still in the Acropolis, I might go into1 this helmet and bring forth, as the pigeons do.

What do you say? You are making excuses. The matter is evident. Will you not wait here for the helmet’s2 naming-day?

But I am not even able to sleep in the Acropolis, since once I saw the serpent, the guardian3 of the house.

And I, unhappy, am destroyed with want of sleep through the owls, which are constantly crying, “to who.”4

My good women, cease from your juggling tricks! You long for your husbands perhaps: but do you not think that we long for them? They spend uneasy nights, I well know. But hold out, my good friends, and persevere still further for a short time! for we have an oracle that we shall prevail, unless we be distracted by seditions. Now this is5 the oracle.

Tell us what it says.6

Be silent now! “But when the Swallows,7 avoiding the Hoopoes, cower into one place, and abstain from the phallus, there shall be a rest from evils, and high-thundering Jove shall make8 the higher to be lower”—

Shall we lie above them?

— “but if the Swallows be at variance,1 and fly away with their wings from the sacred temple, no longer shall any bird whatever appear to be more lewd.”

By Jove, the oracle is clear! Let us not then, O all ye gods, give up through suffering; but let us go in. For this will be disgraceful, my dearest women, if we shall betray the oracle.2 [Exit Lysistrala.]

I wish to tell you a story, which I once heard myself when I was yet a boy; in this wise:3—There was once a youth, Melanion, who, avoiding marriage, went to a desert place and dwelt in the mountains. And then he hunted hares,4 having made nets: and he had a dog. And he returned home again no more by reason of his hatred. So much5 did he abominate the women: and we, who are chaste, abominate them no less than Melanion.6

I wish, old woman, to kiss you—

Then you shall not eat an onion.7

— and to lift up your leg and tread on you.

You wear a large beard.

For Myronides8 also was rough in those parts, and black-bottomed to all his foes; and thus also was Phormio.9

I also wish to tell you a story in reply to your Melanion. There was a certain Timon,1 unsettled, encompassed round as to his face with unapproachable thorns,2 a scion of the Furies. This Timon, then, by reason of his hatred, went off having imprecated many curses against wicked men. So much did he always hate in return your3 wicked men; but he was very dear to the women.

Would you that I strike your jaw?

By no means! I am afraid of it.

But I will strike you with my leg.

You will show your ancles.

Yet, however, you would not see them with long hair, though I am an old woman, but depillated with the lamp.4 [Enter Lysistrata attended by several women.]

Ho! ho, women! come hither to me quickly!

What’s the matter? tell me, what means the cry?

I see a man, a man approaching frantic, seized5 with the transports of love. O mistress,6 who rulest over Cyprus and Cytheræ and Paphos, proceed straight on the course you are going!

Where is he, whoever he is?

Near the temple of Ceres.7

Oh, by Jove, in truth there is! Who8 in the world is he?

Look! Does any one of you know him?

Yes, by Jove, I do; and he is my husband Cinesias.9

’Tis your business1 now to roast him, and torture him, and cheat him utterly, and to love him and not love him, and to afford him all things, except those of which2 the cup is conscious.

Don’t trouble yourself: I’ll do so.

Moreover I will remain3 here and cheat him utterly and roast him thoroughly. But do you depart! [Exit Myrrhina, and enter Cinesias, attended by a servant leading his child by the hand.]

Ah me, miserable! What a spasm and what a tension possesses me,4 as if I were racked upon a wheel!

Who is this who stands within the outposts?5

I!

A man?

Yes, a man.

Then will you not begone out of the way?

Who are you who drive me out?

A day-watcher.

By the gods, then, call me out Myrrhina!

Must I call6 your Myrrhina, quoth’a? Who are you?

Her husband, Cinesias the Pæonian.7

Welcome, thou dearest! for thy name8 is not without Edition: current; Page: [429] fame among us, nor yet inglorious. For your wife constantly has you in her mouth;1 and if she get an egg or an apple, she says, “May Cinesias have this!”

Oh, by the gods!

Yes, by Venus; and if any conversation about husbands arise, straightway your wife says, that every thing else is nonsense in comparison with Cinesias.

Go then, call her!

What then? will you give me any thing?

Aye, by Jove, will I, if you wish it! I have this What, then, I have, I give you.

Come then, let me2 descend and call her.

Very quickly then! [Exit Lysistrata.] For I have no pleasure in my life since she went away from the house; but I am grieved when I go in; and every thing appears to me to be desolate; and I find no pleasure in my victuals when I eat, for I am tortured.

(talking with Lysistrata in the Acropolis above). I love him, I love him; but he is not willing to be loved by me. Do not call me to him!

My dearest little Myrrhina, why do you act thus? Come down3 hither!

By Jove, I will not go down thither!

Will you not come down when I call you, Myrrhina?

No; for you call me when you don’t want me at all.

I not in want of you? Nay, rather, undone.

I will go away.

Nay don’t, pray! but at least hearken to your little child! [Turning to the child.] Ho you! will you not call4 your mother?

Mamma! mamma! mamma!5

Ho you! what are1 you about? Do you not even pity the little child, being unwashed and unsuckled six days past?

Of course I pity it; but its father2 is negligent.

Come down, my good girl, to your little child!

What3 a thing it is to be a mother! I must descend. For what shall I do?4 [Enter Myrrhina.]

Why she seems to me to have become much younger, and more loving5 to look at; and in that she is cross to me, and bears herself haughtily,6 these are the very things now which kill me with desire.

O thou dearest little child7 of a bad father! come, let me kiss you, most dear to your mother!

Why, O wretch, do you do this, and comply with other women, and cause me to be grieved, and8 art grieved yourself?

Don’t put your hand on me!

While you are ruining9 my and your property, which is in the house.

I care little about them.

Care you little about your thread, which is tossed10 about by the cocks and hens?

Even so, by Jove!1

The rites of Venus have been so long a time uncelebrated by you. Will you not go back?

Not I, by Jove! unless you make peace and cease from the war.

Therefore, if it seem good to you, we will e’en do so.

Therefore, if it seem good to you, I will e’en go thither; but now I have sworn not to do it.

At least lie down with me for2 a while!

Certainly not! and yet I cannot say3 that I do not love you.

Do you love me? Why then do you4 not lie down, my little Myrrhina?

O you ridiculous man! in presence of the child?

No, by Jove! but, Manes, do you take it home! [Servant leads the child off.] There! the child is now out of the way: will you not lie down?

Why, where could one do this, you rogue?

Very well,5 where the temple of Pan is.

Why, how, pray, any longer could I go to the Acropolis pure?

Very well, I ween, after you have washed in the Clepsydra.6

Shall I then, pray, break my oath, you rogue, after having sworn?

On my head be it!7 Don’t be concerned at all for your oath!

Come then, let me bring a little bed for us.

By no means! It suffices us upon the ground.

By Apollo, I will not1 make you lie down upon the ground, although being such! [Runs off.]

Of a truth it is right well evident that my wife loves me.2

(returning with a bedstead). There! lie down quickly; and I will undress myself. [Cinesias lies down upon the bed.] And yet, bless3 my soul, I must bring out a mattress.

What mattress? Don’t talk to me4 of that!

Yea, by Diana! for it were shameful to lie upon the bed-cords.

Let me give you a kiss then!

There! [Kisses him and runs off.]

Ah! Return then very quickly!

(returning with a mattress). There’s a mattress! Lie down! I’ll now undress myself. And yet, bless my soul! you have not a pillow.

Neither do I want one.

But, by Jove, I do! [Runs off.]

Truly my carcase is entertained like Hercules.5

(returning with a pillow). Rise! jump up!6

I have every thing now.7

Ah, pray?8

Come then, my little treasure!9

Now I’ll undo my girdle!1 Remember then; do not deceive me about the peace.

Then2 may I perish, by Jove!

You have not a counterpane.3

Neither do I want one, by Jove; but I want something else.

Don’t trouble yourself! You shall do so; for I will come speedily. [Runs off.]

The woman4 will kill me with her bed-clothes.

(returning with a counterpane). Raise yourself up!

But I am raised up already.

Would you that I anoint you?

Nay, do not, by Apollo!

Yea, by Venus, whether you will or no! [Runs off.]

O Lord Jove, would the unguent were5 poured out!

(returning with a flash of ointment). Reach forth your hand now, and take it and anoint yourself!

By Apollo, this ointment is not sweet! unless to be dilatory and not savouring of marriage be so.6

Ah me, miserable! I have brought the Rhodian7 unguent.

’Tis excellent! Never mind it,1 my good girl!

Nonsense! [Runs off.]

May he perish most miserably, who first boiled unguents!

(returning with a fresh flask). Take this casket!

But I have another. Come, you tiresome2 thing, lie down and don’t bring me any thing at all!

I will do so, by Diana! In sooth I am taking off my shoes. But, my dearest, see that you vote to make peace.

I will determine about it. [Exit Myrrhina.] My wife has undone me and killed me, both in all other respects, and because she has flayed me and gone. Ah me! what shall I do?3 Whom shall I solicit, being disappointed of the prettiest of all? How shall I educate this? Where’s the Dog-fox?4 Let out5 a nurse to me.

O thou unhappy, thou art afflicted in thy soul with dreadful suffering, having been deceived! And I pity you, alas! alas! For what kidneys could hold out, what soul,6 and what bowels, and what loins? What rump could, being strained, and not having to do with any one in the morning?7

O Jove, what dreadful convulsions!8

This, however, has your all-abominable and all-execrable wife now done to you.

No, by Jove, but dear and sweetest of all!

Don’t talk to me9 of sweet! Abominable, Edition: current; Page: [435] abominable certainly. [Exit Cinesias.] O Jove, Jove, would that you would whirl her away and turn her round,1 and carry her off with a great whirlwind and hurricane, as you do the heaps of corn, and then let her go, and she might be borne back again to the earth, and then suddenly bestride the trident! [Enter Lacedæmonian Herald and Committee-man.]

Where is the Senate of the Athenians, or the2 Prytanes? I wish to make an announcement.

Whether are you a man or Conisalus?3

By the two gods, I have come from Sparta as a herald, young4 man, about the peace!

And then, pray, have you come with a spear under your arm?

No, by Jove, not I!

Whither are you turning yourself? Why, pray, do you put forward your cloak? or have you a swelling in the groin from your journey?

The fellow’s a fool,5 by Castor!

But you are excited, O you most abominable!

No, by Jove, not I! Don’t talk nonsense6 again!

But what’s this here?

A Spartan scytale.7

Aye, if this too is a Spartan scytale.8 But tell me the truth, as to one9 that knows! How are your affairs at Sparta?

All Sparta is excited, and all the allies are excited There is need of Pellene.1

From whom did this misfortune fall upon you? From Pan?2

No; Lampito, I think, began it; then the other women throughout Sparta at once, as if starting from one starting-post, drove away their husbands from their beds.

How are you then?

We are distressed;3 for we go bending through the city, as if carrying4 lamps. For the women will not even suffer us to touch them, till we all with one accord make peace with Greece.

This thing has been sworn to by the women from all parts: I have just now5 ascertained it. But bid them as soon as possible send here ambassadors with full powers to treat about peace! and I will bid the senate choose other ambassadors from hence, having exhibited this.

I will fly; for you speak altogether most excellently. [Exeunt Herald and Committee-man.]

There is no wild beast more unconquerable than a woman, nor fire, nor any panther so shameless.

Why, are you aware of this, and then make war upon me, when it is in your power, you wretch, to have me a firm friend?

“For I will6 never cease to hate woman.”

Well, when7 you please: but now I will not suffer you to be thus naked. For see how ridiculous you are! Come, let me come to you and put on8 your sleeveless coat!

This,9 by Jove, which you have done is Edition: current; Page: [437] not amiss! But, indeed, through evil anger I formerly stripped it off.1

In the first place, you appear2 a man; in the next place, you are not ridiculous: and if you had not vexed me, I would have seized and taken out this little insect in your eye, which now is in it.

This, it seems, is the thing which was distressing me. See! there’s3 my ring! Pull it out! and then show it me, when you’ve taken it out! for, by Jove, it has been stinging my eye this long while.

Well, I’ll do so; although you are a cross man. O Jove! in truth a monstrous gnat to look at is in your eye. Don’t you see it? Is not this gnat a Tricorysian one?4

By Jove, you have eased5 me; for it has been digging wells in me this long while; so that, after it has been taken out, my tears flow copiously.

But I will wipe you clean, although you are very bad, and will kiss you.

Do not kiss6 me!

Whether7 you will or no.

A plague8 take you! since you are wheedling by nature; and that saying is rightly said, and not badly “Neither with9 utterly-abandoned women, nor without utterly-abandoned Edition: current; Page: [438] women.” But now I make peace with you, and henceforth I will neither do any thing bad any more,1 nor suffer it from you. Come, let us be united and begin2 our song together!

We are not prepared,3 sirs, to speak any ill at all4 of any of the citizens; but, quite the contrary, both to say and do every thing good; for our present5 sufferings even are sufficient. But let every man and woman make it known,6 if any wishes to receive money, two or three minæ: we have7 plenty within, and have purses. And if ever peace appear, whoever shall have now borrowed from us, shall never repay what he shall have received. We are going to entertain some Carystian8 strangers, honourable and good men; and I have still some broth; and I had a sucking-pig; and this I have slaughtered, so that you shall eat tender and fine meat. Come therefore to my house to-day! But you ought to do this early,9 having bathed, both you and your children; and then to go in, and ask no one any questions, but boldly to proceed straight forward, as if into your own houses, for the door shall be—shut.

Well now, see! here are the ambassadors from Sparta coming, trailing beards! as if with a bandage10 about their thighs. [Enter Spartan Ambassadors.] Spartans, in the first place, welcome! next, tell us in what state you are come!

What need to say many words to you? for you may see in what state we have come.

Bless me! This calamity is dreadfully excited! It seems to be worse inflamed.

Unspeakably! What can one say?1 But let some one come by all means and make peace with us, as he pleases.

Well now, I see these here aborigines putting back their dress from their bellies, like wrestlers, so that the disease2 appears to be one belonging to an athlete. [Enter Athenians.]

Who can tell us where Lysistrata is? for see! we men here3 have come, of such rank!

Both this disease and the other agree in this way.4 Does a tension seize you towards morning?

No, by Jove, but we are killed when we undergo5 this: so that, if some one will not quickly make peace between us, we shall certainly commit a rape upon Clisthencs.6

If you are wise, you will take your clothes, so that none of the mutilaters of the Hermæ7 shall see you.

By Jove, you certainly say well!

Yea, by the two gods, by all means! Come, let us put on our dress!8

Welcome, Spartans! We have suffered shameful things.

O my dearest! of a truth we should have suffered dreadful things, if the men could have seen9 us excited.

Come now, Spartans, you must mention each severally. For what are you come hither?

As ambassadors about peace.

In truth you say well: we also are come on account of this. Why then do we not summon Lysistrata, who alone can make peace between us!

Aye, by the two gods, and Lysistratus,1 if you like.

But there’s no occasion, as it seems, for us to call her; for see! here she2 is herself coming out, when she heard it? [Enter Lysistrata.] Hail! O thou bravest of all women; now it behoveth thee to be clever,3 good, easy, grave, mild, and shrewd; for the chiefs of the Grecians, caught by thy charm, have yielded to thee, and referred all their grievances to thee in common.

Well, the business is not difficult, if one were to find people eager for peace,4 and not making trial of each other. But I’ll soon know. Where is Peace?5 First take and lead forward the Spartans, and not with a hand violent or self-willed, nor as our husbands6 used unskilfully to do it, but very affectionately,7 as is proper women should. If any do not give his hand, lead him by the nose. [Enter Peace represented by a beautiful girl.] Come! do you also lead these Athenians, and lead them forward, having caught hold of them by whatever part they present. You Spartans, stand close beside me, and you on this side, and hear my words! I am a woman, it is true; but sense is in me:8 “and of myself Edition: current; Page: [441] I am not ill off in respect of1 intellect.” By having often heard the remarks of my father and my elders, I have been not ill educated. I wish to take and justly chide you2 in common, who, although you besprinkle your altars with the same lustral-water,3 as kindred people, at Olympia, Pylæ, and Delphi—how many others could I mention, if there were occasion for me to be prolix?—are destroying Grecian men and Grecian cities with your armies, when barbarians4 are before you as enemies. One part of my speech5 is thus far finished.

I am killed with desire.

In the next place, ye Spartans,—for I will turn to you,—do you not know, when formerly Periclides6 the Spartan came hither as a suppliant of the Athenians, and sat upon the altars, pale, in a red cloak, begging an army? At that time Messena7 was pressing upon you, and at the same Edition: current; Page: [442] time the god1 was shaking the earth. But Cimon went with four thousand hoplites and saved the whole of Sparta. After you have been benefited in this way by the Athenians, do you devastate a land, from which you have received benefits?

By Jove, Lysistrata, these are in the wrong!

We are in the wrong: but sin is unspeakably beautiful.2

Do you suppose I shall let you3 Athenians off? Know you not when the Spartans in turn came in arms and slew many Thessalians,4 and many confederates and allies of Hippias, alone on that day5 marching out with you to battle, and freed you, who were wearing servile6 dresses, and in place of the servile dress, clothed your people again with a mantle?

I have never seen a better7 woman!

And I, never yet a fairer bosom!

Why, then, when many benefactions8 exist on both sides, do you fight, and not cease from your wickedness? Why do you not make peace? Come, what’s the hinderance?

We are willing, if one be willing to restore to us this spencer.

Of what kind, good sir?

Pylos,9 which we have been wishing for and desiring this long while.

By Neptune, this you shall10 not do!

Give it up to them, good sir!

And whom then shall we solicit?

Do you demand another place instead of this!

Then do you deliver up to us the what d’ye call ’em—in the first place this Echinus, and the Melian Gulf behind it, and the legs1 of Megara!

No, by the two gods, not all, my good sir!2

Give them up! do not dispute about legs!

I am willing now to strip and cultivate the land naked.3

And I, by the two gods, to dung them4 in the morning.

When5 you shall have made peace, you shall do so. But if you think fit to do this, deliberate, and go and consult your allies!

What6 allies, my friend? We are excited. Will not our allies be of the same opinion—all to enjoy themselves?

Ours7 will, at any rate, by the two gods!

Aye, by Jove! for the Carystians also will.8

You say well. Now therefore see that you be pure, so that we women may entertain you in the Acropolis with what we have in our chests. And there give oaths and assurances to each other; and then each of you shall take his own wife and depart.

Well, let us go as soon as possible.

Lead whither you please.

Yes, by Jove, as quickly as possible! [Excunt Lysistrata, Athenians, and Spartans.]

I do not grudge to offer9 my variegated bed-clothes, Edition: current; Page: [444] and little cloaks, and state-robes,1 and golden ornaments, as many as I have, to all to carry to their children and whenever any one’s daughter is Canephorus. I tell you all now to take of my property out of the house; and that nothing is so well sealed up, that2 you may not break the sealing-wax, and bear away whatever is in the house. But he shall see nothing when he looks, unless some of you see sharper than I do. But if any of you has no food, and maintains domestics and many small children, he may receive from me husked wheat; but the chœnix-loaf is very fresh to look at. Whatever poor person therefore wishes, let him come to my house with sacks and wallets; for he shall receive wheat; and Manes my servant shall put it into them. I forewarn you, however, not to come to my door, but to beware of the dog.3 [Enter Market-loungers, and knock clamorously at the door of the Citadel.]

Open the door!

(coming out with a torch in his hand). Will you get away? Why do you sit? Shall I burn you with the torch?4 The post is a troublesome one.5

I’ll not do so!

If we must by all means do so, we will endure, to gratify you.

And we too will endure with you.

Will you not begone? You shall howl aloud in your hairs.6 Will you not begone, so that7 the Spartans may Edition: current; Page: [445] depart from the house in quietness, after their entertainment?

[Enter an Athenian returning from the entertainment.]

I have never seen such an entertainment! Upon my word, the Spartans were even entertaining; but we were the cleverest boon-companions1 over the wine.

Aye, rightly said; because we Athenians are not in our right senses when we are sober. If I prevail upon the Athenians by my words,2 we shall always go on embassies3 to all places drunk. For at present, whenever we go to Sparta sober, we immediately look to see what we can disturb:4 so that, what they say, we hear not; but what they don’t say, this we wrongly suspect.5 And we do not make the same report about the same things.6 But now every thing pleases; so that, if any one were to sing the scolion of Telamon,7 when he ought to sing that of Clitagora, we would praise8 him, and swear a false oath beside that it Edition: current; Page: [446] was quite the thing. [Market-loungers again crowd about the door.]

But see! here are these people coming together again! Will you not begone, you scoundrels?

Yes, by Jove! for now they are coming out of the house.1 [Enter Spartans returning from the entertainment.]

Take your wind-instruments, my dearest, so that I may dance the Dipodia, and sing2 a pleasing strain upon the Athenians and upon us at the same time.

Take, then, your pipes,3 by the gods! for I am pleased to see you dancing.

Rouse, O Mnemosyne, the youths,4 and my Muse, who is cognizant of us and of the Athenians, when they at Artemisium dashed against the ships,5 like to the gods, and conquered the Persians. But us, on the contrary, did Leonidas lead, like boars, I ween, sharpening their tusks; and abundant foam6 sprang up about our jaws, and abundant foam at the same time flowed down our legs:7 for the men, the Persians, were8 not less numerous than the sands. Huntress Diana, slayer of wild beasts, virgin goddess, come hither to our truce, so that you may keep us united for a long time! Now again may fruitful friendship ever subsist through our covenants, and may we cease from the flattering foxes!9 O come hither, hither, O virgin huntress!

Come now, since the other matters have been transacted well, do you, Spartans, lead away these,1 and you, Athenians, the others! and let husband stand beside wife, and wife beside husband: and then, after having danced in honour2 of the gods for our prosperous fortune, let us be cautious henceforth never to sin again!

Lead forward the chorus! offer thanks! and invoke Artemis! and invoke her twin brother, leader of the chorus, the gracious Apollo! and invoke Nysius! Bacchus,3 who sparkles with his eyes amongst the Mænads! and Jove blazing with fire! and invoke his venerable, blessed spouse! and then the deities, whom we shall use as no forgetful witnesses respecting the noble Peace, which the goddess Venus made! Alalai! io pæan!4 Raise yourselves5 aloft! io! io! io! for the victory!6 Evoe, evoe! evæ, evæ!7 Spartan,8 do you now produce a new song after our new song.

Come9 again, Spartan Muse, having left the lovely Taygetus, celebrating Apollo, the god of Amyclæ, revered by us; and Minerva dwelling in a brazen house;10 and the brave Tyndaridæ, who sport beside the Eurotas. Come, advance rapidly! Oh, come, bounding lightly! so that we may celebrate Sparta, to whom the choruses of the gods are a care and the sound of feet; and the damsels, like fillies, bound up frequently with their feet beside the Eurotas, making haste; and their locks are agitated, like those of the Bacchanals brandishing the thyrsus Edition: current; Page: [448] and sporting.1 And the chaste daughter of Leda, the comely leader of the chorus, leads them. But come, bind your hair with a fillet, and dance with hand and foot, like a stag! and at the same time make a noise cheering the chorus; and again celebrate the most mighty, the all-conquering goddess dwelling in a brazen house! [Exeunt omnes.]

[the former with the lion’s skin of Hercules thrown over his usual effeminate attire, and armed with that hero’s club; the latter mounted on an ass, and carrying their travelling baggage on the end of a pole].

I say some of the usual jokes, master, at which the spectators always laugh.2

Yes, by Jove, whatever you please, except “I am burdened;”3 but beware of this, for it is by this time utterly sickening to me.4

Nor any thing else facetious?

Except, “How I am afflicted!”

What then? shall I say what is very laughable?

Aye, by Jove, boldly: that thing only1 take care you say not—

What?

That with shifting the yoke2 from one shoulder to the other, you desire to ease yourself.

Nor that I shall break wind with carrying so great a load upon me, unless some one shall remove it?

Nay, do not, I beseech you, except when I am about to vomit.

Then what occasion3 was there that I should carry this baggage, if I am to do none of those things which Phrynichus4 is accustomed to do, and Lycis, and Amipsias? They are always carrying baggage in Comedy.5

Don’t do so then; for whenever, being a spectator, I see any of these stage tricks, I come away older by more than a year.6

O this thrice-unlucky neck then! because it is distressed, but must not utter what is laughable.

Then is not this insolence and much conceit, when I, who am Bacchus, son of—a wine-jar,1 am walking myself, and toiling, while I let him ride, in order that he might not be2 distressed or carry a burden?

Why, do I not carry?

Why, how do you carry, who are carried?

Because I carry these.3

In what way?

Very heavily.

Does not the ass then carry this weight which you carry?

Certainly not what I hold and carry; no, by Jove!

Why, how do you carry, who are yourself carried by another?

I know not; but this shoulder of mine is burdened.

Do you then, since you deny that the ass assists you, in your turn take up and carry the ass.

Ah me, miserable! Why was I not at the sea-fight?4 Of a truth I would have bid a long farewell to you.5

Dismount, you scoundrel, for now I go1 near this door, whither I was first to betake myself. [Knocks violenth at the door.] Little boy, boy, I say,2 boy! [Xanthias dismounts from his ass.]

(from within). Who knocked at the door? How Centaur-like3 he rushed at it, whoever he is. [The door opens, and Hercules comes out.] Tell me, what’s this?4

(addressing Xanthias). Boy!5

What’s the matter?

Did you not observe?

What?

How exceedingly he was afraid of me.

Yes, by Jove, lest you should be mad.

(aside). By Ceres, I certainly am not able6 to refrain from laughing, though I bite my lips; nevertheless I laugh.

My good sir, come forward; for I have some need of you.

(trying to suppress his laughter). I am not able to drive away my laughter, when I see a lion’s skin lying upon a saffron-coloured robe.7 What’s your purpose? Why Edition: current; Page: [525] have the buskin and club1 come together? Whither in the world have you been abroad?

I embarked on board the Clisthenes.2

And fought at sea?

And we sunk either twelve or thirteen ships of the enemy too.3

You two?

Yea, by Apollo!

“And then I awoke.”4

And indeed, as I was reading the Andromeda to myself5 on board the ship, suddenly a desire smote my heart, you can’t think how vehemently.6

Desire? How great7 a one?

A little one: as big as Molon.8

For a woman?

Certainly not.

For a boy, then?1

By no means.

For a man, then?

Faugh!

Have you been with Clisthenes?

Do not mock me, brother, for2 I am distressed; such a desire utterly undoes me.

Of what sort, my little brother?

I am not able to tell it; yet certainly3 will I declare it to you in a riddle.4 Did you ever5 suddenly desire peasoup?

Pea-soup? bless me! ten thousand times in my life.

Shall I teach you thoroughly the truth6 of the matter, or shall I declare it in some other way?

Nay, do not about the pea-soup at least; for I understand that instance very well.

Therefore such a longing for Euripides consumes me—

And that too7 when he is dead?

And no man could persuade me, so as not to go to fetch him.8

To Hades below?

Aye, and, by Jove, lower still, if there be aught still ower.1

With2 what intent?

I want a clever poet, “for3 some are no longer alive, and others who are living, are bad.”

What then, is not4 Iophon alive?

Why, to be5 sure this is even the only good thing still remaining, if indeed even this be good; for I don’t know6 for certain even how this is.

Do you not mean, then, to bring up Sophocles,7 who is before8 Euripides, if you must bring one from thence?

Not before I shall have taken Iophon alone by himself, and tried him, what he can do without Sophocles. And besides, Euripides, as he is roguish, would even attempt to run away hither along with me, while the other is easy here, and easy there.9

But where’s Agathon?10

He has left me and gone, a good1 poet, and much regretted by his friends.2

Whither in the world is the poor fellow3 gone?

To the banquet of the blest.

And Xenocles?4

By Jove, may he perish utterly.

And Pythangelus?5

(aside). But no account6 made of me, though I am so dreadfully galled in my shoulder.

Are there not therefore here more than ten thousand other mere lads who compose tragedies, more loquacious7 than Euripides by more than a stadium?8

These are small fry, and chatter-boxes, “twittering-places of the swallows,”9 disgraces to the art, who vanish speedily, if only they receive a chorus, after having once piddled upon tragedy.10 But a poet of creative powers you could no longer find,11 if you searched, who uttered a noble expression.

How creative?

So creative as to utter1 some such venturous phrase as “Æther, little mansion2 of Jove,” or “Foot of time,” or “The mind which was not willing to swear by the victims, and the tongue which swore apart from the mind.”

Do these please you?

Nay, but3 they please me to more than madness.

Of a surety4 they are knavish tricks, as appears even to you.

Do not direct5 my mind; for you have a house of your own.

And yet absolutely they appear most villanous.

Teach me to dine.6

(aside). But no account of me.

But tell me these, for the sake of which1 I have come with this dress, in imitation of you, that you might tell me your entertainers, if I should want them, whom you made use of at that time when you went to fetch Cerberus, the harbours, bakers’ shops, brothels, resting-places, lodging-houses, springs, roads, cities, rooms, hostesses, and where there are fewest bugs.

(aside). But no account of me.

Oh rash! why, will you dare to go?

And do you too say nothing further to this, but tell me about the roads, how we may soonest arrive at Hades below; and tell me neither a hot nor a very cold way.

Come now, which of them shall I tell you first? Which?2 for there is one way by a rope and a bench, if you hang yourself.

Have done, you tell me a choking one.

But there is a compendious and well-beaten3 path, that through a mortar.

Do you mean hemlock?

Certainly.

Aye, a cold and chilly one, for it immediately benumbs4 the shins.

Would you have me tell you a speedy and down-hill road?

Yes, by Jove, for I am not good at walking.

Creep down then to the Ceramicus.5

And what then?

When you have mounted on the lofty tower—

What must I do?

Look out thence for the torch to be thrown down and then, when the spectators call to fling it, do you, too, fling1 yourself—

Whither?

Down.

But I should destroy the two membranes2 of my brain: I could not travel this way.

What then?

That whereby you then descended.3

But the voyage is long; for you will immediately come to a large lake, altogether bottomless.

How then shall I get across?

An old sailor-man will carry you over in a little boat only so big, when he has received two obols4 as his fare.

Ha! what a mighty power the two obols have every where! How came they thither, too?5

Theseus brought them. After this you will see snakes, and innumerable wild beasts most dreadful.

Do not try1 to astound, or put me in a fright, for you will not dissuade me.

Then you will see abundant mud,2 and ever-flowing ordure; and3 people lying in this, if any where any one has ever wronged his guest,4 or appropriated the wages of prostitution, or beaten his mother, or struck his father’s cheek, or sworn a false oath, or if any have transcribed a passage of Morsimus.5

Yea, by the gods, in addition to these also there ought to have been, if any one learnt the Pyrrhic dance of Cinesias.6

After that the breath of flutes shall encompass you, and you shall see a most beautiful light, as here,7 and myrtle groves, and happy bands of men and women,8 and abundant clapping of hands.

But who, pray, are these?

The initiated—1

By Jove, I am certainly the ass2 that carries the mystic implements. But I will not hold these any3 longer. [Throws his baggage on the ground.]

—who will tell you every thing whatever you want. For they dwell4 very near along the very road, by Pluto’s gates. And now fare you well, brother.5 [Hercules goes in and shuts the door.]

Yea, by Jove, and fare you well also; but do you (to Xanthias) take up the baggage again.

Before I have laid them down even?

Aye, and very quickly, let me tell you!

Nay, do not, I beseech you, but hire some one on those who are being carried forth to burial, who is going on this errand.6

But if I should not be able?

Then let me take7 them. [A funeral procession with a dead body on a bier crosses the stage.]

You say well; for they are carrying forth1 some dead man here.2 Hollo you! You, I say! you,3 the dead man! Fellow, will you carry some small baggage to Hades?

About4 how many?

These here.

Will you pay two drachmæ5 as my pay?

No, by Jove, but less.

Go you slowly on your way.6

Stay, my good sir, if I may possibly make7 a bargain with you.

Unless you will pay two drachmæ, don’t talk.

Take nine obols.

Then may I come to life again! [Funeral procession moves on.]

How8 haughty the accursed fellow is! Won’t he smart for it? I’ll go myself. [Takes up the baggage again.]

You are a good and noble fellow. Let us go to the boat. [Here the scene changes9 to the banks of the Styx.]

Avast!10 put to shore!

What’s this?

By Jove, this1 is that lake of which he was telling us; and I see a boat too.

Aye, by Neptune, and see here’s Charon too!

Hail, Charon! hail, Charon! hail, Charon!

Who is bound to the resting-place from miseries2 and troubles? who to the plain of Lethe, or to an ass-shearing,3 or to the Cerberians,4 or to the crows, or to Tænarus?5

I.

Get on board quickly.

Where d’ye think you shall put6 in? to the crows really?

Yes, by Jove, as far as you are concerned.7 Now, get on board.

Here, boy! [Bacchus gets into the boat.]

I carry no slave, unless he has been in the battle1 of the Carcasses.

No, by Jove; for I happened to have sore2 eyes.

Will you not then, pray, run round the lake, round about?3

Where then shall I wait for you?

Near the stone of Auænus,4 at the resting-places.

D’ye understand?

Yes, certainly, I understand. Ah me, miserable! what omen5 did I meet with as I left home? [Xanthias runs off.]

Sit to your oar. [Bacchus goes and seats himself on the oar instead of at the oar.] If any one further is for sailing, let him make haste. [To Bacchus.] Hollo you! what are you doing?

What am I doing? why, what else but sitting on the oar, where you bade me?

Will you not then, pray, sit down here, you fat-guts?

There.

Will you not then put forth your hands and stretch them out?

There. [Makes a silly motion with his hands.]

Don’t be playing the fool,1 but row stoutly with your feet against the stretcher.2

Why, how then shall I be able to row, being inexperienced and unused to the sea, and no Salaminian?

Very easily; for you shall hear most delightful melodies, as soon as you once lay to your oar.

From whom?

From swans, the frogs, wondrous ones.

Now give the time!

Yeo ho! yeo ho!

Brekekekex, coax, coax, brekekekex, coax, coax. Marshy offspring of the fountains, let us utter an harmonious strain of hymns, my sweet-sounding song, coax, coax, which we sung in Limnæ3 around the Nysæan4 Bacchus, son of Jove, when the crowd of people rambling about in drunken revelry on the sacred festival of the Chytræ, marched through my demesne. Brekekekex, coax, coax.

I begin to have a pain in my bottom, you coax, coax. But you, no doubt,5 don’t care.

Brekekekex, coax, coax.

May you perish then together with your coax;⁶ for you are nothing else but coax.

Aye, justly, you busybody, for the Muses with Edition: current; Page: [538] beautiful lyre, and horn-footed1 Pan, who plays reed-sounded strains, have loved me, and the harper Apollo is still more delighted with me on account of the reed,2 which, put under the lyre, living in the water, I nourish in marshes. Brekekekex, coax, coax.

I have blisters, and my hinder-end has been sweating this long while, and then presently it will stoop and say “brekekekex, coax, coax.” Come, O song-loving race, have done!

Nay, rather, we will sing the more, if ever on3 sunny days we have leapt through galingal and sedge, delighting in strains of song with many a dive; or at the bottom, avoiding the rain of Jove, have chanted4 our varied watery choral music amid the noise of bursting bubbles. Brekekekex, coax, coax.

I’ll take5 this from you.

Then in truth we shall suffer dreadful things.

But I more dreadful things, if I shall burst with rowing.

Brekekekex, coax, coax.

A plague take you! for I don’t care.

Nay, assuredly, we will screech as loud as our throats can compass,1 throughout the day, brekekekex, coax, coax.

In this you shall not conquer me.

Nor, assuredly, shall you us by any means.2

Never shall you conquer me, for I will screech brekekekex, coax, coax, even if I must all the day, till I overcome your coax. [The frogs suddenly cease croaking.] I thought I should3 make you cease from your coax at last.

Have done! have done! put the boat to land with the oar; step out; pay your fare.

Take4 now the two obols. [Bacchus steps out and Charon pushes off again.]

Xanthias!5 where’s Xanthias? ho, Xanthias!6

(from a distance). Hollo!7

Come hither. [Enter Xanthias.]

Welcome, master.8

What’s the state of things there?9

Darkness and mud.

Then did you see any where there the parricides and the perjured, of whom he spoke to us?

And did not you?

Aye, by Neptune, did I; and now, too, I see them. [Turns and looks towards the audience.] Come now, what shall we do?

It is best for us to go forward, for this is the place where he was saying the dreadful wild beasts were.

How he shall smart for it!1 He was humbugging, so that I might be frightened, as he knew me to be valiant, out of jealousy; for there is nothing so self-conceited as Hercules. But I should wish to fall in with one, and meet with an encounter worthy of my journey.

Well now,2 by Jove, I hear some noise.

(in a great fright). Where, where is it?

From behind.

Go behind.

But it is in front.

Then go in front.

Well now, by Jove, I see a huge wild beast.

What sort of a one?

Dreadful: at any rate it becomes of every shape; at one time an ox, and now a mule, and at another time, again, a most beautiful woman.

Where is she? come, let me go to her.

But, again, it is no longer a woman, but now it is a dog.

Then it is the Empusa.3

At any rate her whole face blazes with fire.

And she has a brazen leg.

Aye, by Neptune, and the other, be well assured, is that of an ass.1

Whither then can I betake myself?

And whither I?

(runs to the front of the stage). O priest,2 preserve me, that I may be your boon companion.

We shall perish, O king Hercules.

Don’t call me,3 fellow, I beseech you, or pronounce my4 name.

O Bacchus, then.

This name still less than the other.

Go where you are going. Hither, hither, master!

What’s the matter?

Be of good courage: we are altogether prosperous,5 and we may say, like Hegelochus,6 “for after the billows again I see a calm.” The Empusa is gone.

Swear it.

By Jove.

And swear again.

By Jove.

Swear.

By Jove.

Ah me, miserable! how pale I grew at the sight of her!

But this fellow in his fright turned redder than I.

Ah me! Whence have these evils befallen me? Whom of the gods shall I accuse of ruining me? “Æther, little mansion of Jove,” or, “Foot of time?” [A distant sound of flute-music is heard from behind the scenes.]

Hollo!

What’s the matter?

Did you not hear?

What?

The breath of flutes.

I did; and a very mystical1 odour of torches too breathed upon me. Come, let us crouch down softly and listen.

[Bacchus and Xanthias retire to one side.]

Iacchus, O Iacchus, Iacchus, O Iacchus.2

There we have it,1 master; the initiated, of whom he was telling us, are dancing some where here. At any rate they are chanting Iacchus, like Diagoras.2

To me also they appear so. Therefore it is best to keep quiet, so that we may know it for certain. [Enter Chorus.]

Iacchus, O highly-honoured, who dwellest here in your abodes, Iacchus, O Iacchus, come to thy pious votaries, to dance through this meadow;3 shaking the full-fruited chaplet about your head abounding in myrtle,4 and with bold foot treading a measure among the pious Mystæ, possessing the largest share of the Graces,5 holy and sacred, the unrestrained, mirth-loving act of worship.

O venerable, highly-honoured daughter of Ceres, how sweetly the swine’s flesh breathed6 upon me!

Will you not then be quiet, if you do get a smell of sausage?

Brandish in your hand and wake up the flaming torches,1 Iacchus, O Iacchus, thou Hesperus of the nocturnal orgies. The meadow gleams with flame; the knee of the old men moves swiftly;2 and they shake off griefs and long cycles of aged years at the sacred act of worship.3 But do thou, blessed deity, gleaming with thy torch, lead4 straight forward to the flowery, meadowy plain the youths forming5 the chorus.

It behoveth him to abstain6 from ill-omened words, and make way for7 our choirs, whoever is unskilled in such words, or is not pure in mind, or has neither seen nor celebrated with dances the orgies of the high-born Muses,8 and has not been Edition: current; Page: [545] initiated in the Bacchanalian orgies of the tongue of Cratinus1 the bull-eater; or takes pleasure in buffoonish verses which excite this buffoonery unseasonably;2 or does not put down hateful sedition, and is not good-natured to the citizens, but, eager for his private gain, rouses it and blows it up; or when the state is tempest-tossed, being a magistrate, receives bribes; or betrays a garrison or ships, or exports from Ægina3 forbidden exports, being another Thorycion, a vile collector of tolls,4 who used to send across to Epidaurus oar-paddings, and sail-cloth, and pitch; or who persuades any one to supply money for the ships of the enemy; or befouls the statues of Hecate,5 while he is accompanying with his voice the Cyclic choruses; or, being an orator, then nibbles off the salaries of the poets,6 because he has been lampooned in the national festivals of Bacchus.7 These I order, and again I command and again8 the third time I command to make way for the Edition: current; Page: [546] choruses of the Mystæ;1 but do ye wake the song, and our night-festivals,2 which become this festival.

Advance then manfully, each of you, to the flowery bosoms of the meadows, dancing, and joking, and sporting, and scoffing. We have breakfasted3 sufficiently. Come, advance, and see that you4 nobly extol the Preserver,5 singing of her with your voice, who promises to save the country for ever, even if Thorycion be not willing. Come now, praise with divine songs and celebrate the goddess Ceres,6 the fruit-bringing queen, with another species of hymns.

Ceres, queen7 of holy orgies, assist us, and preserve thy own chorus, and let me securely throughout the day sport Edition: current; Page: [547] and dance, and let me say much that is laughable, and much1 that is serious, and after having sported and jested2 in a manner worthy of thy festival, let me wear the head-band as conqueror.3

But come on now, and invite hither with songs the blooming god, our partner in this choral dance.

O highly-honoured Iacchus, who invented the very sweet melody of the festival, follow along with us hither to the goddess, and show how long a journey4 you accomplish without toil.

Iacchus, friend of the choral dance, escort me; for thou hast torn in pieces my sandals and my ragged garment for laughter and for economy,5 and hast devised, so that we may sport and dance without punishment.6

Iacchus, friend of the choral dance, escort me; for, having glanced a little aside, I just now spied the bosom of a young and very pretty girl, our playmate, as it peeped out from her vest rent at the side. Iacchus, friend of the choral dance, escort me.

Somehow I am always1 inclined to follow; and I wish to sport and dance with her.

And I too.

Will ye then that we jointly mock at Archedemus?2 who when seven years old had no clansmen; but now he is a demagogue among the dead above, and is chief3 of the scoundrelism there. But I hear that Clisthenes4 among the tombs depillates his5 hinder parts, and lacerates his cheeks. And stooping forward he mourned for, and bewailed, and called upon Sebinus, who6 is the Anaphlystian. And they say that Callias7 too, this son of Hippobinus, was at the sea-fight, Edition: current; Page: [549] dressed in a woman’s lion-skin. [Bacchus and Xanthias leave their hiding-place and come forward.]

Could you peradventure tell us whereabouts in this place Pluto dwells?1 for we are strangers newly come.

Do not go away far,2 nor ask me again and again, but know that you are come to his very door.

Take them3 up again, boy!

What is this thing but “Jove’s4 Corinth” in the baggage?

Now advance ye in the sacred circle5 of the goddess, sporting through the flowery grove, who have a participation in the festival dear to the gods.

I will go with the damsels and women, where they celebrate the night-festival in honour6 of the goddess, to carry the sacred torch.

Let us proceed to the flowery meadows abounding in roses, sporting in our manner, the most beautiful in the dance,1 which2 the blessed Fates institute. For to us alone, as many as have been initiated, and conducted ourselves in a pious manner towards the foreigners and the citizens, are the sun and the light joyous.3

Come now, in what way shall I knock at the door? in what?4 How then do the people of the country here knock?

Don’t loiter,5 but try the door, as you have your dress and your spirit after the manner of Hercules.

(knocking at the door). Boy! boy!

Who’s there?6

Hercules the brave. [Æacus comes out.]

O you impure, and shameless, and audacious fellow, and abominable, and all-abominable, and most abominable! who dragged out our dog Cerberus,7 which I had the care of, and darted away holding him by the throat, and ran clear off with him. But now you are held by the middle; such a black-hearted rock of Styx, and blood-dripping cliff of Acheron, environ you, and the roaming dogs8 of Cocytus, and the hundred-headed Echidna,9 which shall rend in sunder your viscera; and a Tartessian10 serpent shall fasten on your lungs, Edition: current; Page: [551] while Tithrasian1 Gorgons shall tear in pieces your kidneys, together with your entrails, stained with blood; to fetch which I will set in motion a swift foot.2 [Exit Æacus, and Bacchus falls down in a fright.]

Hollo you! what have you done?

Eased myself: invoke the god.3

O you ridiculous fellow! will you not then get up quickly, before some stranger sees you?

But I am fainting. Come, bring a sponge to put to my heart.

There, take it! [Offers him a sponge.]

Put it to it.

Where is it? [Bacchus presents his posteriors to him.] Oh ye golden4 gods! is it there you keep your heart?

Why, it crept down through fright into the bottom of my belly.5

O thou most cowardly of gods and men!

I? how am I cowardly,6 who asked you for a sponge? No other man then would have done it.7

What then8 would he have done?

He would have lain sniftering, if he was a coward; but I got up, and moreover wiped myself clean.

Bravely done,1 by Neptune!

By Jove, I think so. But did you not fear the sound of his words and his threats?

No, by Jove! I did not even give them a thought.

Come then, since you are so spirited and brave, do you take this club and the lion’s skin and become me, if2 you are so fearless of heart; and I will be your baggage-carrier in turn.

Give them now quickly, for I must3 comply with you; and look at the Hercules-Xanthias, if I shall be a coward, and with a spirit like you. [Dresses himself in the lion’s skin.]

No, by Jove, but truly the worthless slave of Melite.4 Come then, let me take up5 this baggage. [Enter a maid-servant of Proserpine.]

O dearest Hercules,6 have you come? Come in hither; for the goddess, when she heard that you7 were come, immediately began baking loaves, boiled8 two or three pots of soup of bruised peas, broiled a whole ox, baked cheese-cakes and rolls. But do come in.

No, I thank you.1

By Apollo, I will not suffer you to go2 away! for3 in truth she has been boiling poultry,4 and toasting5 sweet-meats, and mixing up most delicious wine. But come in along with me.

No, I thank you.

You are talking nonsense: I will not let you go; for there is a6 very pretty flute-girl too within, and two or three dancing-girls besides.7

How say you? dancing girls?

Youngish,8 and newly depillated. But do come in, for the cook was just going to take up the slices of salt fish, and the table was being carried in.