PAPHLAGON Not so; a Pythian oracle I’ve got Describing him who only can defeat me.
SAUSAGE-SELLER Describing me, without the slightest doubt.
PAPHLAGON Well then I’ll test and prove you, to discern How far you tally with the God’s predictions. And first I ask this question,—when a boy Tell me the teacher to whose school you went.
SAUSAGE-SELLER Hard knuckles drilled me in the singeing pits.
PAPHLAGON How say you? Heavens, the oracle’s word strikes home! Well! What at the trainer’s did you learn to do?
SAUSAGE-SELLER Forswear my thefts, and stare the accuser down.
PAPHLAGON Phoebus Apollo! Lycius! what means this? Tell me what trade you practised when a man.
SAUSAGE-SELLER I sold sausages—
PAPHLAGON Well?
SAUSAGE-SELLER And sold myself.
PAPHLAGON Unhappy me! I’m done for. There remains One slender hope whereon to anchor yet. Where did you sell your sausages? Did you stand Within the Agora, or beside the Gates?
SAUSAGE-SELLER Beside the Gates, where the salt-fish is sold.
PAPHLAGON O me, the oracle has all come true! Roll in, roll in, this most unhappy man. O crown, farewell. Unwillingly I leave thee. Begone, but thee some other will obtain, A luckier man perchance, but not more—thievish.
SAUSAGE-SELLER Hellanian Zeus, the victory-prize is thine!
DEMOSTHENES Hail, mighty Victor, nor forget ’twas I Made you a Man; and grant this small request, Make me your Phanus, signer of your writs.
DEMUS Your name, what is it?
SAUSAGE-SELLER Agoracritus. An Agora-life I lived, and thrived by wrangling.
DEMUS To Agoracritus I commit myself, And to his charge consign this Paphlagon.
SAUSAGE-SELLER And, Demus, I will always tend you well, And you shall own there never lived a man Kinder than I to the Evergaping City.
CHORUS O what is a nobler thing, Beginning or ending a song, For horsemen who joy in driving Their fleet-foot coursers along, Than—Never to launch a lampoon at Lysistratus, scurvy buffoon; Or at heartless Thumantis to gird, poor starveling, in lightness of heart; Who is weeping hot tears at thy shrine, Apollo, in Pytho divine, And, clutching thy quiver, implores to be healed of his poverty’s smart! For lampooning worthless wretches, none should bear the bard a grudge;
CHORUS
Now if he whose evil-doings I must needs expose to blame Were himself a noted person, never had I named the name Of a man I love and honour. Is there one who knows not well Arignotus, prince of harpers? None, believe me, who can tell How the whitest colour differs from the stirring tune he plays. Arignotus has a brother (not a brother in his ways) Named Ariphrades, a rascal—nay, but that’s the fellow’s whim— Not an ordinary rascal, or I had not noticed him. Not a thorough rascal merely; he’s invented something more, Novel forms of self-pollution, bestial tricks unknown before. Yea, to nameless filth and horrors does the loathsome wretch descend, Works the work of Polymnestus, calls Oeonichus his friend. Whoso loathes not such a monster never shall be a friend of mine, Never from the selfsame goblet quaff, with us, the rosy wine. And oft in the watches of night My spirit within me is thrilled, To think of Cleonymus eating As though he would never be filled. O whence could the fellow acquire that appetite deadly and dire?
CHORUS
They say when he grazes with those whose table with plenty is stored That they never can get him away from the trencher, though humbly they pray Have mercy, O King, and depart! O spare, we beseech thee, the board! Recently, ’tis said, our galleys met their prospects to discuss, And an old experienced trireme introduced the subject thus; “Have ye heard the news, my sisters? ’tis the talk in every street, That Hyperbolus the worthless, vapid townsman, would a fleet Of a hundred lovely galleys lead to Carthage far away.” Over every prow there mantled deep resentment and dismay. Up and spoke a little galley, yet from man’s pollution free, “Save us! such a scurvy fellow never shall be lord of me. Here I’d liefer rot and moulder, and be eaten up of worms.” “Nor Nauphante, Nauson’s daughter shall he board on any terms; I, like you, can feel the insult; I’m of pine and timber knit. Wherefore, if the measure passes, I propose we sail and sit Suppliant at the shrine of Theseus, or the Dread Avenging Powers.
CHORUS
He shall ne’er, as our commander, Sool it o’er this land of ours. If he wants a little voyage, let him launch his sale-trays, those Whereupon he sold his lanterns, steering to the kites and crows.”
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