CHORUS
Have ye seen him, all ye people, seen the man of matchless art, Seen him, by his private treaty, traffic gain from every mart, Goods from every neighbour; Some required for household uses; some ’twere pleasant warm to eat; All the wealth of all the cities lavished here before his feet, Free from toil and labour. War I’ll never welcome in to share my hospitality, Never shall the fellow sing Harmodius in my company, Always in his cups he acts so rudely and offensively. Tipsily he burst upon our happy quiet family, Breaking this, upsetting that, and brawling most pugnaciously. Yea when we entreated him with hospitable courtesy,
CHORUS
Sit you down, and drink a cup, a Cup of Love and Harmony, All the more he burnt the poles we wanted for our husbandry, Aye and spilt perforce the liquor treasured up within our vines. Proudly he prepares to banquet. Did ye mark him, all elate, As a sample of his living cast these plumes before his gate? Grand his ostentation! O of Cypris foster-sister, and of every heavenly Grace, Never knew I till this moment all the glory of thy face, RECONCILIATION! O that Love would you and me unite in endless harmony, Love as he is pictured with the wreath of roses smilingly. Maybe you regard me as a fragment of antiquity: Ah, but if I get you, dear, I’ll show my triple husbandry. First a row of vinelets will I plant prolonged and orderly, Next the little fig-tree shoots beside them, growing lustily, Thirdly the domestic vine; although I am so elderly. Round them all shall olives grow, to form a pleasant boundary.
CHORUS Thence will you and I anoint us, darling, when the New Moon shines.
CRIER O yes! O yes! Come, drain your pitchers to the trumpet’s sound, In our old fashion. Whoso drains his first, Shall have, for prize, a skin of—Ctesiphon.
DICAEOPOLIS Lads! Lassies! heard ye not the words he said? What are ye at? Do ye not hear the Crier? Quick! stew and roast, and turn the roasting flesh, Unspit the haremeat, weave the coronals, Bring the spits here, and I’ll impale the thrushes.
CHORUS I envy much your happy plan, I envy more, you lucky man, The joys you’re now possessing.
DICAEOPOLIS What, when around the spits you see the thrushes roasting gloriously?
CHORUS And that’s a saying I admire.
DICAEOPOLIS Boy, poke me up the charcoal fire.
CHORUS O listen with what cookly art And gracious care, so trim and smart, His own repast he’s dressing.
FARMER Alas! Alas!
DICAEOPOLIS O Heracles, who’s there?
FARMER An ill-starred man.
DICAEOPOLIS Then keep it to yourself.
FARMER O—for you only hold the truces, dear— Measure me out though but five years of Peace.
DICAEOPOLIS What ails you?
FARMER Ruined! Lost my oxen twain.
DICAEOPOLIS Where from?
FARMER From Phyle. The Boeotians stole them.
DICAEOPOLIS And yet you are clad in white, you ill-starred loon!
FARMER They twain maintained me in the very lap Of affluent muckery.
DICAEOPOLIS Well, what want you now?
FARMER Lost my two eyes, weeping my oxen twain. Come, if you care for Dercetes of Phyle, Rub some Peace-ointment, do, on my two eyes.
DICAEOPOLIS Why, bless the fool, I’m not a public surgeon.
FARMER Do now; I’ll maybe find my oxen twain.
DICAEOPOLIS No, go and weep at Pittalus’s door.
FARMER Do, just one single drop. Just drop me here Into this quill one little drop of Peace.
DICAEOPOLIS No, not one twitterlet; take your tears elsewhere.
FARMER Alas! Alas! my darling yoke of oxen.
CHORUS He loves the Treaty’s pleasant taste; He will not be, methinks, in haste To let another share it.
DICAEOPOLIS Pour on the tripe the honey, you! And you, the cuttle richly stew!
CHORUS How trumpet-like his orders sound.
DICAEOPOLIS Be sure the bits of eel are browned.
CHORUS The words you speak, your savoury rites, Keep sharpening so our appetites That we can hardly bear it.
DICAEOPOLIS Now roast these other things and brown them nicely.
GROOMSMAN O Dicaeopolis!
DICAEOPOLIS Who’s there? who’s there?
GROOMSMAN A bridegroom sends you from his wedding-banquet These bits of meat.
DICAEOPOLIS Well done, whoe’er he is.
GROOMSMAN And in return he bids you pour him out, To keep him safely with his bride at home, Into this ointment-pot one dram of Peace.
DICAEOPOLIS Take, take your meat away; I can’t abide it. Not for ten thousand drachmas would I give him One drop of Peace. Hey, who comes here?
GROOMSMAN The bridesmaid Bringing a private message from the bride.
DICAEOPOLIS Well, what have you to say? What wants the bride? Affects to listen. O heaven, the laughable request she makes To keep her bridegroom safely by her side. I’ll do it; bring the truces; she’s a woman,. Unfit to bear the burdens of the war. Now, hold the myrrh-box underneath, my girl. Know you the way to use it? Tell the bride, When they’re enrolling soldiers for the war, To rub the bridegroom every night with this. Now take the truces back, and bring the ladle. I’ll fill the winecups for the Pitcher-feast.
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