DICAEOPOLIS. Peace! profane men![188]

CHORUS. Silence all! Friends, do you hear the sacred formula? Here is he,

whom we seek! This way, all! Get out of his way, surely he comes to offer

an oblation.

DICAEOPOLIS. Peace, profane men! Let the basket-bearer[189] come forward,

and thou, Xanthias, hold the phallus well upright.[190]

WIFE OF DICAEOPOLIS. Daughter, set down the basket and let us begin the

sacrifice.

DAUGHTER OF DICAEOPOLIS. Mother, hand me the ladle, that I may spread the

sauce on the cake.

DICAEOPOLIS. It is well! Oh, mighty Bacchus, it is with joy that, freed

from military duty, I and all mine perform this solemn rite and offer

thee this sacrifice; grant, that I may keep the rural Dionysia without

hindrance and that this truce of thirty years may be propitious for me.

WIFE OF DICAEOPOLIS. Come, my child, carry the basket gracefully and with

a grave, demure face. Happy he, who shall be your possessor and embrace

you so firmly at dawn,[191] that you belch wind like a weasel. Go

forward, and have a care they don't snatch your jewels in the crowd.

DICAEOPOLIS. Xanthias, walk behind the basket-bearer and hold the phallus

well erect; I will follow, singing the Phallic hymn; thou, wife, look on

from the top of the terrace.[192] Forward! Oh, Phales,[193] companion of

the orgies of Bacchus, night reveller, god of adultery, friend of young

men, these past six[194] years I have not been able to invoke thee. With

what joy I return to my farmstead, thanks to the truce I have concluded,

freed from cares, from fighting and from Lamachuses![195] How much

sweeter, Phales, oh, Phales, is it to surprise Thratta, the pretty

wood-maid, Strymodorus' slave, stealing wood from Mount Phelleus, to

catch her under the arms, to throw her on the ground and possess her! Oh,

Phales, Phales! If thou wilt drink and bemuse thyself with me, we will

to-morrow consume some good dish in honour of the peace, and I will hang

up my buckler over the smoking hearth.

CHORUS. It is he, he himself. Stone him, stone him, stone him, strike the

wretch. All, all of you, pelt him, pelt him!

The Eleven Comedies, Volume 1 · 第 52 / 146 题