SERVANT. And why not?
TRYGAEUS. Blood cannot please Peace, so let us spill none upon her altar.
Therefore go and sacrifice the sheep in the house, cut off the legs and
bring them here; thus the carcase will be saved for the choragus.
CHORUS. You, who remain here, get chopped wood and everything needed for
the sacrifice ready.
TRYGAEUS. Don't I look like a diviner preparing his mystic fire?
CHORUS. Undoubtedly. Will anything that it behoves a wise man to know
escape you? Don't you know all that a man should know, who is
distinguished for his wisdom and inventive daring?
TRYGAEUS. There! the wood catches. Its smoke blinds poor Stilbides.[366]
I am now going to bring the table and thus be my own slave.
CHORUS. You have braved a thousand dangers to save your sacred town. All
honour to you! your glory will be ever envied.
SERVANT. Hold! here are the legs, place them upon the altar. For myself,
I mean to go back to the entrails and the cakes.
TRYGAEUS. I'll see to those; I want you here.
SERVANT. Well then, here I am. Do you think I have been long?
TRYGAEUS. Just get this roasted. Ah! who is this man, crowned with
laurel, who is coming to me?
SERVANT. He has a self-important look; is he some diviner?
TRYGAEUS. No, i' faith! 'tis Hierocles.
SERVANT. Ah! that oracle-monger from Oreus.[367] What is he going to tell
us?
TRYGAEUS. Evidently he is coming to oppose the peace.
SERVANT. No, 'tis the odour of the fat that attracts him.
TRYGAEUS. Let us appear not to see him.
SERVANT. Very well.
HIEROCLES. What sacrifice is this? to what god are you offering it?
TRYGAEUS (_to the servant_). Silence!--(_Aloud._) Look after the roasting
and keep your hands off the meat.
HIEROCLES. To whom are you sacrificing? Answer me. Ah! the tail[368] is
showing favourable omens.
SERVANT. Aye, very favourable, oh, loved and mighty Peace!
HIEROCLES. Come, cut off the first offering[369] and make the oblation.
TRYGAEUS. 'Tis not roasted enough.
HIEROCLES. Yea, truly, 'tis done to a turn.
TRYGAEUS. Mind your own business, friend! (_To the servant._) Cut away.
Where is the table? Bring the libations.
HIEROCLES. The tongue is cut separately.
TRYGAEUS. We know all that. But just listen to one piece of advice.
HIEROCLES. And that is?
TRYGAEUS. Don't talk, for 'tis divine Peace to whom we are sacrificing.
HIEROCLES. Oh! wretched mortals, oh, you idiots!
TRYGAEUS. Keep such ugly terms for yourself.
HIEROCLES. What! you are so ignorant you don't understand the will of the
gods and you make a treaty, you, who are men, with apes, who are full of
malice![370]
TRYGAEUS. Ha, ha, ha!
HIEROCLES. What are you laughing at?
TRYGAEUS. Ha, ha! your apes amuse me!
HIEROCLES. You simple pigeons, you trust yourselves to foxes, who are all
craft, both in mind and heart.
TRYGAEUS. Oh, you trouble-maker! may your lungs get as hot as this meat!
HIEROCLES. Nay, nay! if only the Nymphs had not fooled Bacis, and Bacis
mortal men; and if the Nymphs had not tricked Bacis a second
time[371]....
TRYGAEUS. May the plague seize you, if you won't stop wearying us with
your Bacis!
HIEROCLES. ... it would not have been written in the book of Fate that
the bonds of Peace must be broken; but first....
TRYGAEUS. The meat must be dusted with salt.
HIEROCLES. ... it does not please the blessed gods that we should stop
the War until the wolf uniteth with the sheep.
TRYGAEUS. How, you cursed animal, could the wolf ever unite with the
sheep?
HIEROCLES. As long as the wood-bug gives off a fetid odour, when it
flies; as long as the noisy bitch is forced by nature to litter blind
pups, so long shall peace be forbidden.
TRYGAEUS. Then what should be done? Not to stop the War would be to leave
it to the decision of chance which of the two people should suffer the
most, whereas by uniting under a treaty, we share the empire of Greece.
HIEROCLES. You will never make the crab walk straight.
TRYGAEUS. You shall no longer be fed at the Prytaneum; the war done,
oracles are not wanted.
HIEROCLES. You will never smooth the rough spikes of the hedgehog.
TRYGAEUS. Will you never stop fooling the Athenians?
HIEROCLES. What oracle ordered you to burn these joints of mutton in
honour of the gods?
TRYGAEUS. This grand oracle of Homer's: "Thus vanished the dark
war-clouds and we offered a sacrifice to new-born Peace. When the flame
had consumed the thighs of the victim and its inwards had appeased our
hunger, we poured out the libations of wine." 'Twas I who arranged the
sacred rites, but none offered the shining cup to the diviner.[372]