CHORUS
A happy lot the man has got: his scheme devised with wondrous art Proceeds and prospers as you see; and now he’ll sit in his private Mart The fruit of his bold design to reap. And O if a Ctesias come this way, Or other informers vex us, they Will soon for their trespass weep. No sneak shall grieve you buying first the fish you wanted to possess, No Prepis on your dainty robes wipe off his utter loathsomeness. You’ll no Cleonymus jostle there; But all unsoiled through the Mart you’ll go, And no Hyperbolus work you woe With writs enough and to spare. Never within these bounds shall walk the little fop we all despise, The young Cratinus neatly shorn with single razor wanton-wise, That Artemon-engineer of ill, Whose father sprang from an old he-goat, And father and son, as ye all may note, Are rank with its fragrance still. No Pauson, scurvy knave, shall here insult you in the market-place, No vile Lysistratus, to all Cholargian folk a dire disgrace,
CHORUS That deep-dyed sinner, that low buffoon, Who always shivers and hungers sore - Full thirty days, or it may be more, In every course of the moon.
BOEOTIAN Hech sirs, my shouther’s sair, wat Heracles! Ismeny lad, pit doon thae pennyroyal Wi’ tentie care. Pipers wha cam’ frae Thaibes Blaw oop the auld tyke’s hurdies wi’ the banes.
DICAEOPOLIS Hang you! shut up! Off from my doors, you wasps! Whence flew these curst Chaeridian bumble-drones Here, to my door? Get to the ravens! Hence!
BOEOTIAN An’ recht ye are, by Iolaus, stranger. They’ve blawn behint me a’ the wa’ frae Thaibes, An’ danged the blossom aff my pennyroyal. But buy, an’t please you, onie thing I’ve got, Some o’ thae cleckin’ or thae four-winged gear.
DICAEOPOLIS O welcome, dear Boeotian muffin-eater, What have you there?
BOEOTIAN A’ that Boeoty gies us. Mats, dittany, pennyroyal, lantern-wicks, An’ dooks, an’ kaes, an’ francolins, an’ coots, Plivers an’ divers.
DICAEOPOLIS Eh? Why then, methinks, You’ve brought fowl weather to my marketplace.
BOEOTIAN Aye, an’ I’m bringin’ maukins, geese, an’ tods. Easels an’ weasels, urchins, moles, an’ cats, An’ otters too, an’ eels frae Loch Copais.
DICAEOPOLIS O man, to men their daintiest morsel bringing, Let me salute the eels, if eels you bring.
BOEOTIAN Primest o’ Loch Copais’ fifty dochters Come oot o’ that; an’ mak’ the stranger welcome.
DICAEOPOLIS O loved, and lost, and longed for, thou art come, A presence grateful to the Comic choirs, And dear to Morychus. Bring me out at once, O kitchen-knaves, the brasier and the fan. Behold, my lads, this best of all the eels, Six years a truant, scarce returning now. O children, welcome her; to you I’ll give A charcoal fire for this sweet stranger’s sake. Out with her! Never may I lose again, Not even in death, my darling dressed in—beet.
BOEOTIAN Whaur sall I get the siller for the feesh?
DICAEOPOLIS This you shall give me as a market-toll. But tell me, are these other things for sale?
BOEOTIAN Aye are they, a’ thae goods.
DICAEOPOLIS And at what price? Or would you swap for something else?
BOEOTIAN I’se swap For gear we haena, but ye Attics hae.
DICAEOPOLIS Well then, what say you to Phaleric sprats, Or earthenware?
BOEOTIAN Sprats! ware! we’ve thae at hame. Gie us some gear we lack, an’ ye’ve a rowth o’.
DICAEOPOLIS I’ll tell you what; pack an INFORMER up, Like ware for exportation.
BOEOTIAN Mon! that’s guid. By the Twa Gudes, an’ unco gain I’se mak’. Takin’ a monkey fu’ o’ plaguy tricks.
DICAEOPOLIS And here’s Nicarchus coming to denounce you!
BOEOTIAN He’s sma’ in bouk.
DICAEOPOLIS But every inch is bad.
NICARCHUS Whose is this merchandise?
BOEOTIAN ’Tis a’ mine here. Frae Thaibes, wat Zeus, I bure it.
NICARCHUS Then I here Denounce it all as enemies!
BOEOTIAN Hout awa! Do ye mak’ war an’ enmity wi’ the burdies?
NICARCHUS Them and you too.
BOEOTIAN What hae I dune ye wrang?
NICARCHUS That will I say for the bystanders’ sake. A lantern-wick you are bringing from the foe.
DICAEOPOLIS Show him up, would you, for a lantern-wick?
NICARCHUS Aye, for that lantern-wick will fire the docks.
DICAEOPOLIS A lantern-wick the docks! O dear, and how?
NICARCHUS If a Boeotian stuck it in a beetle, And sent it, lighted, down a watercourse
NICARCHUS Straight to the docks, watching when Boreas blew His stiffest breeze, then if the ships caught fire, They’d blaze up in an instant.
DICAEOPOLIS Blaze, you rascal! What, with a beetle and a lantern-wick?
NICARCHUS Bear witness!
DICAEOPOLIS Stop his mouth, and bring me litter. I’ll pack him up, like earthenware, for carriage, So they mayn’t crack him on their journey home.
CHORUS Tie up, O best of men, with care The honest stranger’s piece of ware, For fear they break it, As homeward on their backs they take it.
DICAEOPOLIS To that, be sure, I’ll have regard; Indeed it creaks as though ’twere charred, By cracks molested, And altogether God-detested.
CHORUS How shall he deal with it?
DICAEOPOLIS For every use ’tis fit, A cup of ills, a lawsuit can, For audits an informing pan, A poisoned chalice Full filled with every kind of malice
CHORUS But who can safely use, I pray, A thing like this from day to day
CHORUS In household matters, A thing that always creaks and clatters?
DICAEOPOLIS He’s strong, my worthy friend, and tough: He will not break for usage rough, Not though you shove him Head foremost down, his heels above him.
CHORUS (To Boeotian) You’ve got a lovely pack.
BOEOTIAN A bonnie hairst I’se mak’.
CHORUS Aye, best of friends, your harvest make, And whereso’er it please you take This artful, knowing And best equipped informer going.
DICAEOPOLIS ’Twas a tough business, but I’ve packed the scamp. Lift up and take your piece of ware, Boeotian.
BOEOTIAN Gae, pit your shouther underneath, Ismeny.
DICAEOPOLIS And pray be careful as you take him home. You’ve got a rotten bale of goods, but still! And if you make a harvest out of him, You’ll be in luck’s way, as regards informers.
SERVANT Dicaeopolis!
DICAEOPOLIS Well? why are you shouting?
SERVANT Why? Lamachus bids you, towards the Pitcher-feast, Give him some thrushes for this drachma here, And for three drachmas one Copaie eel.
DICAEOPOLIS Who is this Lamachus that wants the eel?
SERVANT The dread, the tough, the terrible, who wields The Gorgon targe, and shakes three shadowy plumes.
DICAEOPOLIS An eel for him? Not though his targe he gave me! Let him go shake his plumes at his salt fish. If he demur, I’ll call the Market clerks. Now for myself I’ll carry all these things Indoors, to the tune o’ merles an’ mavises wings.
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