(_Enter_ LYSISTRATA. _She walks to and fro
and looks anxiously to right and left._)
LYS. None here! The place is void, the streets are dumb:
Though I have called, the women have not come!
Ah, had it been for Bacchus, or for Pan,
Or Her who casts her woman-wiles on man,--
White foam-born Aphrodite--swift and loud
With beat of drums had thronged the giddy crowd
To do them honour! Now I stand alone
Uncomraded; and these soft hearts are stone
While stricken Greece goes stumbling to her death.
Yet here comes one!
(_Enter_ CALONICE, _very slowly, dragging her
feet, yawning and still dressing herself_.)
What! Are you out of breath
With running, Calonice? Good, indeed!
O swift of foot, I praise you for your speed!
CAL. Nay, peace, Lysistrata! What trouble now?
Why look you sad, my child? That darkened brow
Becomes you not.
(_Tries to embrace her._ LYSISTRATA _turns away_.)
LYS. Oh, Calonice, flame
Eats at my heart, and wrath, and heavy shame
That there be women whom men can rightly hold
In base esteem.
CAL. (_adjusting her dress._) Aye, true!
LYS. So when ’twas told
How here a voice should speak and bid them rouse
For Athen’s sake, naught did they care! They drowse
Lapt in fond dreams.
CAL. Well, they must sleep sometimes!
LYS. Yes, and make sleep the cover of their crimes!
Not sleep alone--
CAL. “Not sleep _alone_!”
LYS. --but sloth and slavish lust
Have made them tame!
CAL. Ah, give them time! You trust
My word for it, they’ll come! Often, no doubt,
’Tis difficult for women to get out:
For those with husbands have enough to do;
And servants need a looking after, too;
And then the children--one to put to bed,
And one to wash, another to be fed;--
Ah! there’s no end to it!
LYS. And yet, my friend,
To all these things now there must be an end.
There stands for us a stiffer load to bear.
CAL. Than woman’s burden? Why, what is it? Where?
Lysistrata, belongs it ... to our trade?
LYS. Touching alike the matron and the maid.
CAL. (_with sudden comprehension_). Oh! Is that it?
What? Is it so you mean?
LYS. Nay, there’s no man in it! Oh, had there been,
Out they’d have buzzed like flies to tainted flesh!
That which I have in mind is something fresh--
Frost, and yet fire: a love which looks like hate,
Barren, yet breeding safety to the State.
CAL. Surely a subtle thing, past women’s ken?
LYS. Nay, not so far; yet past the thoughts of men.
The hope of Greece depends on women now.
CAL. What, on us women? A frail hope, I vow!
Oh, what a pass! (_Turns away._)
LYS. That wherein now we stand,
Surely is worse: for now on every hand,
State against State, we waste ourselves in war.
Soon shall the breed of Sparta be no more
Than a mere name; and Corinth by her seas
Will lie in ruins!
CAL. Well, and are not these
The foes of Athens?
LYS. Foes! the race which slew
With us the Persian? Athens will go, too,
When Sparta dies: for, Greece being drained of men
And emptied of her strength, we perish then
Beyond redemption!
CAL. Aye, most miserably!
For without men where should we women be?
LYS. Therefore I call on women to unite
And win for us salvation.
CAL. What? To fight?
LYS. A woman’s battle.
CAL. Think you we can win?
LYS. Word has gone forth: and let them but come in
To Athens from the North and Peloponnese,
The women in alliance shall save Greece.
CAL. Oh! they won’t come! What, shall the Spartan wives
Join hands with _us_, while Spartans risk their lives
In war on Athens? Did I not hear of late
My husband say never was there such hate
As now ’twixt us and them?
LYS. I have a plan
Of peace: each woman must subdue her man.
CAL. What can a woman do, save to go dressed
In saffron robe, with loose Cimmerian vest
And sandalled feet? Can hands which ply their craft
On curl and comb, and ointment, hold the haft
Of weaponed war? (_Seats herself._)
LYS. These are the very things
Wherewith to fight; from them salvation springs,--
The saffron robe, the delicate sandalled feet,
The broidered vest, the curl, the ointment sweet!
CAL. How? To what end shall these things help us here?
LYS. (_rises_). So that henceforth no man shall lift a spear
Against his neighbour.
CAL. Nay, my wits are weak:
Your words sound empty.
LYS. So that Greek ’gainst Greek
Shall take up arms no more,--
CAL. Then joy betide!
Swiftly I’ll get me a robe with saffron dyed!