Aristophanes, Peace 1127–1190: Second parabasis: the Chorus sing of country life

What a pleasure, what a treasure, What a great delight to me, From the cheese and from the onions And the helmet to be free. For I can’t enjoy a battle, But I love to pass my days With my wine and boon companions Round the merry merry blaze, When the logs are dry and seasoned, And the fire is burning bright, And I roast the pease and chestnuts In the embers all alight, —Flirting too with Thratta When my wife is out of sight. (EPIRRHEMA.) Ah, there’s nothing half so sweet as when the seed is in the ground,

God a gracious rain is sending, and a neighbour saunters round. “O Comarchides!” he hails me: “how shall we enjoy the hours?” “Drinking seems to suit my fancy, what with these benignant showers. Therefore let three quarts, my mistress, of your kidney-beans be fried, Mix them nicely up with barley, and your choicest figs provide; Syra run and shout to Manes, call him in without delay, ’Tis no time to stand and dawdle pruning out the vines to-day, Nor to break the clods about them, now the ground is soaking through. Bring me out from home the fieldfare, bring me out the siskins two, Then there ought to be some beestings, four good plates of hare beside (Hah! unless the cat purloined them yesterday at eventide; Something scuffled in the pantry, something made a noise and fuss); If you find them, one’s for father, bring the other three to us. Ask Aeschinades to send us myrtle branches green and strong;

Bid Charinades attend us, shouting as you pass along. Then we’ll sit and drink together, God the while refreshing, blessing All the labour of our hands.” (ANTISTROPHE.) O to watch the grape of Lemnos Swelling out its purple skin, When the merry little warblings Of the Chirruper begin; For the Lemnian ripens early. And I watch the juicy fig Till at last I pick and eat it When it hangeth soft and big; And I bless the friendly seasons Which have made a fruit so prime, And I mix a pleasant mixture, Grating in a lot of thyme, —Growing fat and hearty In the genial summer clime.

’Tis, he says, true Sardian tincture, which they warrant not to run; But if e’er it gets to fighting, though his scarlet coat be on, He himself becomes as pallid as the palest Cyzicene, Running like a tawny cockhorse, he’s the first to quit the scene; Shake and quake his crests above him: I stood gaping while he flew. Ah, but when at home they’re stationed, things that can’t be borne they do, Making up the lists unfairly, striking out and putting down Names at random. ’Tis to-morrow that the soldiers leave the town; One poor wretch has bought no victuals, for he knew not he must go Till he on Pandion’s statue spied the list and found ’twas so,

Reading there his name inserted; off he scuds with aspect wry. This is how they treat the farmers, but the burghers certainly Somewhat better: godless wretches, rogues with neither shame nor—shield, Who one day, if God be willing, strict accounts to me shall yield. For they’ve wronged me much and sorely: Very lions in the city, Very foxes in the fight.