TRYGAEUS. With good wine, no doubt?
SON OF LAMACHUS. "... with armour and rushed forth from the towers, and a
terrible shout arose."
TRYGAEUS. Get you gone, you little scapegrace, you and your battles! You
sing of nothing but warfare. Who is your father then?
SON OF LAMACHUS. My father?
TRYGAEUS. Why yes, your father.
SON OF LAMACHUS. I am Lamachus' son.
TRYGAEUS. Oh! oh! I could indeed have sworn, when I was listening to you,
that you were the son of some warrior who dreams of nothing but wounds
and bruises, of some Boulomachus or Clausimachus;[388] go and sing your
plaguey songs to the spearmen.... Where is the son of Cleonymus? Sing me
something before going back to the feast. I am at least certain he will
not sing of battles, for his father is far too careful a man.
SON OF CLEONYMUS. "An inhabitant of Saïs is parading with the spotless
shield which I regret to say I have thrown into a thicket."[389]
TRYGAEUS. Tell me, you little good-for-nothing, are you singing that for
your father?