TRYGAEUS. He died about the time of the Laconian invasion.
HERMES. How?
TRYGAEUS. Of a swoon. He could not bear the shock of seeing one of his
casks full of wine broken. Ah! what a number of other misfortunes our
city has suffered! So, dearest mistress, nothing can now separate us from
thee.
HERMES. If that be so, receive Opora here for a wife; take her to the
country, live with her, and grow fine grapes together.[325]
TRYGAEUS. Come, my dear friend, come and accept my kisses. Tell me,
Hermes, my master, do you think it would hurt me to fuck her a little,
after so long an abstinence?
HERMES. No, not if you swallow a potion of penny-royal afterwards.[326]
But hasten to lead Theoria[327] to the Senate; 'twas there she lodged
before.
TRYGAEUS. Oh! fortunate Senate! Thanks to Theoria, what soups you will
swallow for the space of three days![328] how you will devour meats and
cooked tripe! Come, farewell, friend Hermes!
HERMES. And to you also, my dear sir, may you have much happiness, and
don't forget me.
TRYGAEUS. Come, beetle, home, home, and let us fly on a swift wing.
HERMES. Oh! he is no longer here.
TRYGAEUS. Where has he gone to then?
HERMES. He is harnessed to the chariot of Zeus and bears the
thunderbolts.
TRYGAEUS. But where will the poor wretch get his food?
HERMES. He will eat Ganymede's ambrosia.
TRYGAEUS. Very well then, but how am I going to descend?
HERMES. Oh! never fear, there is nothing simpler; place yourself beside
the goddess.
TRYGAEUS. Come, my pretty maidens, follow me quickly; there are plenty of
folk awaiting you with standing tools.
CHORUS. Farewell and good luck be yours! Let us begin by handing over all
this gear to the care of our servants, for no place is less safe than a
theatre; there is always a crowd of thieves prowling around it, seeking
to find some mischief to do. Come, keep a good watch over all this. As
for ourselves, let us explain to the spectators what we have in our
minds, the purpose of our play.
Undoubtedly the comic poet who mounted the stage to praise himself in the
parabasis would deserve to be handed over to the sticks of the beadles.
Nevertheless, oh Muse, if it be right to esteem the most honest and
illustrious of our comic writers at his proper value, permit our poet to
say that he thinks he has deserved a glorious renown. First of all, 'tis
he who has compelled his rivals no longer to scoff at rags or to war with
lice; and as for those Heracles, always chewing and ever hungry, those
poltroons and cheats who allow themselves to be beaten at will, he was
the first to cover them with ridicule and to chase them from the
stage;[329] he has also dismissed that slave, whom one never failed to
set a-weeping before you, so that his comrade might have the chance of
jeering at his stripes and might ask, "Wretch, what has happened to your
hide? Has the lash rained an army of its thongs on you and laid your back
waste?" After having delivered us from all these wearisome ineptitudes
and these low buffooneries, he has built up for us a great art, like a
palace with high towers, constructed of fine phrases, great thoughts and
of jokes not common on the streets. Moreover 'tis not obscure private
persons or women that he stages in his comedies; but, bold as Heracles,
'tis the very greatest whom he attacks, undeterred by the fetid stink of
leather or the threats of hearts of mud. He has the right to say, "I am
the first ever dared to go straight for that beast with the sharp teeth
and the terrible eyes that flashed lambent fire like those of Cynna,[330]
surrounded by a hundred lewd flatterers, who spittle-licked him to his
heart's content; it had a voice like a roaring torrent, the stench of a
seal, a foul Lamia's testicles and the rump of a camel."[331]
I did not recoil in horror at the sight of such a monster, but fought him
relentlessly to win your deliverance and that of the Islanders. Such are
the services which should be graven in your recollection and entitle me
to your thanks. Yet I have not been seen frequenting the wrestling school
intoxicated with success and trying to tamper with young boys;[332] but I
took all my theatrical gear[333] and returned straight home. I pained
folk but little and caused them much amusement; my conscience rebuked me
for nothing. Hence both grown men and youths should be on my side and I
likewise invite the bald[334] to give me their votes; for, if I triumph,
everyone will say, both at table and at festivals, "Carry this to the
bald man, give these cakes to the bald one, do not grudge the poet whose
talent shines as bright as his own bare skull the share he deserves."
Oh, Muse! drive the War far from our city and come to preside over our
dances, if you love me; come and celebrate the nuptials of the gods, the
banquets of us mortals and the festivals of the fortunate; these are the
themes that inspire thy most poetic songs. And should Carcinus come to
beg thee for admission with his sons to thy chorus, refuse all traffic
with them; remember they are but gelded birds, stork-necked dancers,
mannikins about as tall as a pat of goat's dung, in fact machine-made
poets.[335] Contrary to all expectation, the father has at last managed
to finish a piece, but he owns himself a cat strangled it one fine
evening.[336]
Such are the songs[337] with which the Muse with the glorious hair
inspires the able poet and which enchant the assembled populace, when the
spring swallow twitters beneath the foliage;[338] but the god spare us
from the chorus of Morsimus and that of Melanthius![339] Oh! what a
bitter discordancy grated upon my ears that day when the tragic chorus
was directed by this same Melanthius and his brother, these two
Gorgons,[340] these two harpies, the plague of the seas, whose gluttonous
bellies devour the entire race of fishes, these followers of old women,
these goats with their stinking arm-pits. Oh! Muse, spit upon them
abundantly and keep the feast gaily with me.
TRYGAEUS. Ah! 'tis a rough job getting to the gods! my legs are as good
as broken through it. How small you were, to be sure, when seen from
heaven! you had all the appearance too of being great rascals; but seen
close, you look even worse.
SERVANT. Is that you, master?
TRYGAEUS. So I have been told.
SERVANT. What has happened to you?
TRYGAEUS. My legs pain me; it is such a plaguey long journey.
SERVANT. Oh! do tell me....
TRYGAEUS. What?
SERVANT. Did you see any other man besides yourself strolling about in
heaven?
TRYGAEUS. No, only the souls of two or three dithyrambic poets.
SERVANT. What were they doing up there?
TRYGAEUS. They were seeking to catch some lyric exordia as they flew by
immersed in the billows of the air.
SERVANT. Is it true, what they tell us, that men are turned into stars
after death?
TRYGAEUS. Quite true.
SERVANT. Then who is that star I see over yonder?
TRYGAEUS. That is Ion of Chios,[341] the author of an ode beginning
"Morning"; as soon as ever he got to heaven, they called him "the Morning
Star."
SERVANT. And those stars like sparks, that plough up the air as they dart
across the sky?[342]
TRYGAEUS. They are the rich leaving the feast with a lantern and a light
inside it. But hurry up, show this young girl into my house, clean out
the bath, heat some water and prepare the nuptial couch for herself and
me. When 'tis done, come back here; meanwhile I am off to present this
one to the Senate.
SERVANT. But where then did you get these pretty chattels?
TRYGAEUS. Where? why in heaven.
SERVANT. I would not give more than an obolus for gods who have got to
keeping brothels like us mere mortals.
TRYGAEUS. They are not all so, but there are some up there too who live
by this trade.
SERVANT. Come, that's rich! But I bethink me, shall I give her something
to eat?
TRYGAEUS. No, for she would neither touch bread nor cake; she is used to
licking ambrosia at the table of the gods.