DICAEOPOLIS. Ah! poor wretch! and yet you have not left off white?
HUSBANDMAN. Their dung made my wealth.
DICAEOPOLIS. What can I do in the matter?
HUSBANDMAN. Crying for my beasts has lost me my eyesight. Ah! if you care
for poor Dercetes of Phylé, anoint mine eyes quickly with your balm of
peace.
DICAEOPOLIS. But, my poor fellow, I do not practise medicine.
HUSBANDMAN. Come, I adjure you; perchance I shall recover my steers.
DICAEOPOLIS. 'Tis impossible; away, go and whine to the disciples of
Pittalus.[258]
HUSBANDMAN. Grant me but one drop of peace; pour it into this reedlet.
DICAEOPOLIS. No, not a particle; go a-weeping elsewhere.
HUSBANDMAN. Oh! oh! oh! my poor beasts!
CHORUS. This man has discovered the sweetest enjoyment in peace; he will
share it with none.
DICAEOPOLIS. Pour honey over this tripe; set it before the fire to dry.
CHORUS. What lofty tones he uses! Did you hear him?
DICAEOPOLIS. Get the eels on the gridiron!
CHORUS. You are killing me with hunger; your smoke is choking your
neighbours, and you split our ears with your bawling.
DICAEOPOLIS. Have this fried and let it be nicely browned.
A BRIDESMAID. Dicaeopolis! Dicaeopolis!
DICAEOPOLIS. Who are you?
BRIDESMAID. A young bridegroom sends you these viands from the marriage
feast.
DICAEOPOLIS. Whoever he be, I thank him.
BRIDESMAID. And in return, he prays you to pour a glass of peace into
this vase, that he may not have to go to the front and may stay at home
to do his duty to his young wife.
DICAEOPOLIS. Take back, take back your viands; for a thousand drachmae I
would not give a drop of peace; but who are you, pray?
BRIDESMAID. I am the bridesmaid; she wants to say something to you from
the bride privately.
DICAEOPOLIS. Come, what do you wish to say? (_The bridesmaid whispers in
his ear._) _Ah!_ what a ridiculous demand! The bride burns with longing
to keep by her her husband's weapon. Come! bring hither my truce; to her
alone will I give some of it, for she is a woman, and, as such, should
not suffer under the war. Here, friend, reach hither your vial. And as to
the manner of applying this balm, tell the bride, when a levy of soldiers
is made to rub some in bed on her husband, where most needed. There,
slave, take away my truce! Now, quick hither with the wine-flagon, that I
may fill up the drinking bowls!
CHORUS. I see a man, striding along apace, with knitted brows; he seems
to us the bearer of terrible tidings.
HERALD. Oh! toils and battles! 'tis Lamachus!
LAMACHUS. What noise resounds around my dwelling, where shines the glint
of arms.
HERALD. The Generals order you forthwith to take your battalions and your
plumes, and, despite the snow, to go and guard our borders. They have
learnt that a band of Boeotians intend taking advantage of the feast of
Cups to invade our country.
LAMACHUS. Ah! the Generals! they are numerous, but not good for much!
It's cruel, not to be able to enjoy the feast!
DICAEOPOLIS. Oh! warlike host of Lamachus!
LAMACHUS. Wretch! do you dare to jeer me?
DICAEOPOLIS. Do you want to fight this four-winged Geryon?
LAMACHUS. Oh! oh! what fearful tidings!
DICAEOPOLIS. Ah! ah! I see another herald running up; what news does he
bring me?
HERALD. Dicaeopolis!
DICAEOPOLIS. What is the matter?
HERALD. Come quickly to the feast and bring your basket and your cup;
'tis the priest of Bacchus who invites you. But hasten, the guests have
been waiting for you a long while. All is ready--couches, tables,
cushions, chaplets, perfumes, dainties and courtesans to boot; biscuits,
cakes, sesamé-bread, tarts, and--lovely dancing women, the sweetest charm
of the festivity. But come with all haste.
LAMACHUS. Oh! hostile gods!
DICAEOPOLIS. This is not astounding; you have chosen this huge, great
ugly Gorgon's head for your patron. You, shut the door, and let someone
get ready the meal.
LAMACHUS. Slave! slave! my knapsack!
DICAEOPOLIS. Slave! slave! a basket!
LAMACHUS. Take salt and thyme, slave, and don't forget the onions.
DICAEOPOLIS. Get some fish for me; I cannot bear onions.
LAMACHUS. Slave, wrap me up a little stale salt meat in a fig-leaf.
DICAEOPOLIS. And for me some good greasy tripe in a fig-leaf; I will have
it cooked here.
LAMACHUS. Bring me the plumes for my helmet.
DICAEOPOLIS. Bring me wild pigeons and thrushes.
LAMACHUS. How white and beautiful are these ostrich feathers!
DICAEOPOLIS. How fat and well browned is the flesh of this wood-pigeon!
LAMACHUS. Bring me the case for my triple plume.
DICAEOPOLIS. Pass me over that dish of hare.
LAMACHUS. _Oh!_ the moths have eaten the hair of my crest!
DICAEOPOLIS. I shall always eat hare before dinner.
LAMACHUS. Hi! friend! try not to scoff at my armour.
DICAEOPOLIS. Hi! friend! will you kindly not stare at my thrushes.
LAMACHUS. Hi! friend! will you kindly not address me.
DICAEOPOLIS. I do not address you; I am scolding my slave. Shall we wager
and submit the matter to Lamachus, which of the two is the best to eat, a
locust or a thrush?
LAMACHUS. Insolent hound!
DICAEOPOLIS. He much prefers the locusts.
LAMACHUS. Slave, unhook my spear and bring it to me.
DICAEOPOLIS. Slave, slave, take the sausage from the fire and bring it to
me.
LAMACHUS. Come, let me draw my spear from its sheath. Hold it, slave,
hold it tight.
DICAEOPOLIS. And you, slave, grip, grip well hold of the skewer.
LAMACHUS. Slave, the bracings for my shield.
DICAEOPOLIS. Pull the loaves out of the oven and bring me these bracings
of my stomach.
LAMACHUS. My round buckler with the Gorgon's head.
DICAEOPOLIS. My round cheese-cake.
LAMACHUS. What clumsy wit!
DICAEOPOLIS. What delicious cheese-cake!
LAMACHUS. Pour oil on the buckler. Hah! hah! I can see an old man who
will be accused of cowardice.
DICAEOPOLIS. Pour honey on the cake. Hah! hah! I can see an old man who
makes Lamachus of the Gorgon's head weep with rage.
LAMACHUS. Slave, full war armour.
DICAEOPOLIS. Slave, my beaker; that is _my_ armour.
LAMACHUS. With this I hold my ground with any foe.
DICAEOPOLIS. And I with this with any tosspot.
LAMACHUS. Fasten the strappings to the buckler; personally I shall carry
the knapsack.
DICAEOPOLIS. Pack the dinner well into the basket; personally I shall
carry the cloak.
LAMACHUS. Slave, take up the buckler and let's be off. It is snowing! Ah!
'tis a question of facing the winter.
DICAEOPOLIS. Take up the basket, 'tis a question of getting to the feast.
CHORUS. We wish you both joy on your journeys, which differ so much. One
goes to mount guard and freeze, while the other will drink, crowned with
flowers, and then sleep with a young beauty, who will rub his tool for
him.
I say it freely; may Zeus confound Antimachus, the poet-historian, the
son of Psacas! When Choregus at the Lenaea, alas! alas! he dismissed me
dinnerless. May I see him devouring with his eyes a cuttle-fish, just
served, well cooked, hot and properly salted; and the moment that he
stretches his hand to help himself, may a dog seize it and run off with
it. Such is my first wish. I also hope for him a misfortune at night.
That returning all-fevered from horse practice, he may meet an
Orestes,[259] mad with drink, who breaks open his head; that wishing to
seize a stone, he, in the dark, may pick up a fresh stool, hurl his
missile, miss aim and hit Cratinus.[260]
SLAVE OF LAMACHUS. Slaves of Lamachus! Water, water in a little pot! Make
it warm, get ready cloths, cerate, greasy wool and bandages for his
ankle. In leaping a ditch, the master has hurt himself against a stake;
he has dislocated and twisted his ankle, broken his head by falling on a
stone, while his Gorgon shot far away from his buckler. His mighty
braggadocio plume rolled on the ground; at this sight he uttered these
doleful words, "Radiant star, I gaze on thee for the last time; my eyes
close to all light, I die." Having said this, he falls into the water,
gets out again, meets some runaways and pursues the robbers with his
spear at their backsides.[261] But here he comes, himself. Get the door
open.
LAMACHUS. Oh! heavens! oh! heavens! What cruel pain! I faint, I tremble!
Alas! I die! the foe's lance has struck me! But what would hurt me most
would be for Dicaeopolis to see me wounded thus and laugh at my
ill-fortune.
DICAEOPOLIS (_enters with two courtesans_). Oh! my gods! what bosoms!
Hard as a quince! Come, my treasures, give me voluptuous kisses! Glue
your lips to mine. Haha! I was the first to empty my cup.
LAMACHUS. Oh! cruel fate! how I suffer! accursed wounds!