DEMOSTHENES O! O! This Paphlagon, with all his wiles, This newly-purchased pest, I wish the Gods Would “utterly abolish and destroy”! For since he entered, by ill-luck, our house, He’s always getting all the household flogged.
NICIAS I wish they would, this chief of Paphlagons, Him and his lies!
DEMOSTHENES Ha! how feel you, poor fellow?
NICIAS Bad, like yourself.
DEMOSTHENES Then come, and let us wail A stave of old Olympus, both together. BOTH. (Sobbing) Mumu! Mumu! Mumu! Mumu! Mumu!
DEMOSTHENES Pah! What’s the good of whimpering? Better far To dry our tears, and seek some way of safety.
NICIAS Which way? You, tell me.
DEMOSTHENES Rather, tell me you, Or else we’ll fight.
NICIAS By Apollo, no not I. You say it first, and then I’ll say it after.
DEMOSTHENES O that thou said’st the thing that I would say.
NICIAS I’ve not the pluck. I wish I could suggest Some plan in smart Euripidean style.
DEMOSTHENES Don’t do it! Don’t! Pray don’t be-chervil me But find some caper-cutting trick from master.
NICIAS Will you say sert, like that, speaking it crisply?
DEMOSTHENES Of course I’ll say it, sert.
NICIAS Now, after sert Say de.
DEMOSTHENES De.
NICIAS Yes, that’s very nicely said. Now, first say sert, and then say de, beginning Slowly at first, but quickening as you go.
DEMOSTHENES Aye; seri-de, sert-de, sert, de-sert.
NICIAS There ’tis! Do you not like it?
DEMOSTHENES Like it, yes; but—
NICIAS What?
DEMOSTHENES There’s an uncanny sound about desert.
NICIAS Uncanny? How?
DEMOSTHENES They flog deserters so.
NICIAS O then ’twere better that we both should go, And fall before the statues of the Gods.
DEMOSTHENES Stat-at-ues? Is it? What, do you really think That there are Gods?
NICIAS I know it.
DEMOSTHENES Know it! How?
NICIAS I’m such a wretched God-detested chap.
DEMOSTHENES Well urged indeed; but seek some other way. Would you I told the story to the audience?
NICIAS Not a bad plan; but let us ask them first To show us plainly by their looks and cheer If they take pleasure in our words and acts.
DEMOSTHENES I’ll tell them now. We two have got a master, Demus of Pnyx-borough, such a sour old man, Quick-tempered, country-minded, bean-consuming, A trifle hard of hearing. Last new moon He bought a slave, a tanner, Paphlagon, The greatest rogue and liar in the world. This tanning-Paphlagon, he soon finds out Master’s weak points; and cringing down before him Flatters, and fawns, and wheedles, and cajoles, With little apish leather-snippings, thus; O Demus, try one case, get the three-obol, Then take your bath, gorge, guzzle, eat your fill. Would you I set your supper?” Then he’ll seize A dish some other servant has prepared, And serve it up for master; and quite lately I’d baked a rich Laconian cake at Pylus, When in runs Paphlagon, and bags my cake, And serves it up to Demus as his own. But us he drives away, and none but he
DEMOSTHENES Must wait on master; there he stands through dinner With leathern flap, and flicks away the speakers. And he chants oracles, till the dazed old man Goes Sibyl-mad; then, when he sees him mooning, He plies his trade. He slanders those within With downright lies; so then we’re flogged, poor wretches, And Paphlagon runs round, extorting, begging, Upsetting everyone; and Mark, says he, There’s Hylas flogged; that’s all my doing; better Make friends with me, or you’ll be trounced to-day. So then we bribe him off; or if we don’t, We’re sure to catch it thrice as bad from master. Now let’s excogitate at once, good fellow, Which way to turn our footsteps, and to whom.
NICIAS There’s nothing better than my sert, good fellow.
DEMOSTHENES But nought we do is hid from Paphlagon. His eyes are everywhere; he straddles out, One foot in Pylus, in the Assembly one. So vast his stride, that at the self-same moment His seat is in Chaonia, and his hands Are set on Begging, and his mind on Theft.
NICIAS Well then, we had better die; but just consider How we can die the manliest sort of death.
DEMOSTHENES The manliest sort of death? Let’s see; which is it?
NICIAS Had we not better drink the blood of bulls? ’Twere fine to die Themistocles’s death.
DEMOSTHENES Blood? no: pure wine, to the toast of Happy Fortune! From that we’ll maybe get some happy thought.
NICIAS Pure wine indeed! Is this a tippling matter? How can one get, when drunk, a happy thought?
DEMOSTHENES Aye, say you so, you water-fountain-twaddler? And dare you rail at wine’s inventiveness? I tell you nothing has such go as wine. Why, look you now; ’tis when men drink, they thrive, Grow wealthy, speed their business, win their suits, Make themselves happy, benefit their friends. Go, fetch me out a stoup of wine, and let me Moisten my wits, and utter something bright.
NICIAS O me, what good will all your tippling do?
DEMOSTHENES Much; bring it out; I’ll lay me down awhile; For when I’m drunk, I’ll everything bespatter With little scraps of schemes, and plots, and plans.
NICIAS I’ve got the wine; nobody saw me take it. Wasn’t that luck?
DEMOSTHENES What’s Paphlagon about?
NICIAS Drunk! Snoring on his back amidst his hides, The juggler; gorged with confiscation pasties.
DEMOSTHENES Come, tinkle out a bumper of pure wine, To pour.
NICIAS Here, take; and pour to Happy Fortune.
Cite This Text