MNESILOCHUS I’ve strained my eyes with watching; but my poet, “He cometh not.” Why not? Belike he feels Ashamed of his old frigid Palamede. Which is the play to fetch him? O, I know; Which but his brand-new Helen? I’ll be Helen. I’ve got the woman’s clothes, at all events.
CRITYLLA What are you plotting? What is that you’re muttering? I’ll Helen you, my master, if you don’t Keep quiet there till the policeman comes.
MNESILOCHUS (as Helen) These are the fair-nymphed waters of the Nile,
MNESILOCHUS Whose floods bedew, in place of heavenly showers, Egypt’s white plains and black-dosed citizens.
CRITYLLA Sweet-shining Hecate, what a rogue it is.
MNESILOCHUS Ah, not unknown my Spartan fatherland, Nor yet my father Tyndareus.
CRITYLLA My gracious! Was he your father? Sure, Phrynondas was.
MNESILOCHUS And I was Helen.
CRITYLLA What, again a woman? You’ve not been punished for your first freak yet.
MNESILOCHUS Full many a soul, by bright Scamander’s stream, Died for my sake.
CRITYLLA Would yours had died among them!
MNESILOCHUS And now I linger here; but Menelaus, My dear, dear lord, ah wherefore comes he not? O sluggish crows, to spare my hapless life! But soft! some hope is busy at my heart, A laughing hope—O Zeus, deceive me not.
EURIPIDES Who is the lord of this stupendous pile? Will he extend his hospitable care To some poor storm-tossed, shipwrecked mariners?
MNESILOCHUS These are the halls of Proteus.
EURIPIDES Proteus, are they?
CRITYLLA O, by the Twain, he lies like anything. I knew old Protteas’; he’s been dead these ten years.
EURIPIDES Then whither, whither have we steered our bark?
MNESILOCHUS To Egypt.
EURIPIDES O, the weary, weary way!
CRITYLLA Pray don’t believe one single word he says. This is the holy temple of the Twain.
EURIPIDES Know you if Proteus be at home or not?
CRITYLLA Why, don’t I tell you, he’s been dead these ten years! You can’t have quite got over your sea-sickness, Asking if Protteas be at home or not.
EURIPIDES Woe’s me! is Proteus dead? and where’s he buried?
MNESILOCHUS This is his tomb whereon I’m sitting now.
CRITYLLA O, hang the rascal; and he shall be hanged! How dare he say this altar is a tomb?
EURIPIDES And wherefore sitt’st thou on this monument, Veiled in thy mantle, lady?
MNESILOCHUS They compel me, A weeping bride, to marry Proteus’ son.
CRITYLLA Why do you tell the gentleman such fibs? Good gentleman, he’s a bad man; he came Among the women here, to steal their trinkets.
MNESILOCHUS Aye, aye, rail on: revile me as you list.
EURIPIDES Who is the old woman who reviles you, lady?
MNESILOCHUS Theonoé, Proteus’ daughter.
CRITYLLA What a story! Why, I’m Critylla, of Gargettus, sir, A very honest woman.
MNESILOCHUS Aye, speak on. But never will I wed thy brother, no, I won’t be false to absent Menelaus.
EURIPIDES What, lady, what? O, raise those orbs to mine,
MNESILOCHUS O sir, I blush to raise them, with these cheeks.
EURIPIDES O dear, O dear, I cannot speak for trembling. Ye Gods, is’t possible? Who art thou, lady?
MNESILOCHUS O, who art thou? I feel the same myself.
EURIPIDES Art thou Hellenic, or a born Egyptian?
MNESILOCHUS Hellenic I: O, tell me what art thou.
EURIPIDES O surely, surely, thou art Helen’s self.
MNESILOCHUS O, from the greens thou must be Menelaus.
EURIPIDES Yes, yes, you see that miserable man.
MNESILOCHUS O, long in coming to these longing arms, O, carry me, carry me, from this place, O, wrap me in thy close embrace, O, carry me, carry me, carry me home, by this fond and loving kiss, O, take me, take me, take me hence.
CRITYLLA I say now, none of this. Let go there, or I’ll strike you with this link!
EURIPIDES Let go my wife, the child of Tyndareus, Not take her home to Sparta? O, what mean you?
CRITYLLA O, that’s it, is it? You’re a bad one too! Both of one gang. That’s what your gipsying meant! But he at any rate shall meet his due. Here’s the policeman, and the Scythian coming.
EURIPIDES Ah, this won’t do: I must slip off awhile,
MNESILOCHUS And what am I to do?
EURIPIDES Keep quiet here, Be sure I’ll never fail you while I live;
EURIPIDES I have ten thousand tricks to save you yet.
MNESILOCHUS Well, you caught nothing by that haul, I think.
POLICEMAN O archer, here’s the vagabond, of whom Cleisthenes told us. (To Mn.) Why do you hang your head? (To Sc.) Take him within; there tie him on the plank; Then bring him here and watch him. Let not any Approach too near him: should they try to, take The whip, and smite them.
CRITYLLA Aye, one came but now Spinning his yarns, and all but got him off.
MNESILOCHUS O sir! policeman! grant me one request, O, by that hand I pray you, which you love To hold out empty, and to draw back full.
POLICEMAN What should I grant you?
MNESILOCHUS Don’t expose me thus; Do tell the Scythian he may strip me first; Don’t let a poor old man, in silks and snoods, Provoke the laughter of the crows that eat him.
POLICEMAN Thus hath the Council ordered it, that so The passers-by may see the rogue you are.
MNESILOCHUS Alas! alas! O yellow silk, I hate ye! O, I’ve no hope, no hope of getting free.
CHORUS Now for the revels, my sisters, which we to the great Twain Powers Prayerfully, carefully raise, in the holy festival hours.
CHORUS
And Pauson will join in our worship to-day, And Pauson will join in the fasting, And, keen for the fast, to the Twain he will pray For the rite to be made everlasting, I ween, For the rite to be made everlasting. Now advance In the whirling, twirling dance, With hand linked in hand, as we deftly trip along, Keeping time to the cadence of the swiftly-flowing song; And be sure as we go That we dart careful glances, up and down, and to and fro. Now ’tis ours To entwine our choicest flowers, Flowers of song and adoration to the great Olympian Powers. Nor expect That the garland will be flecked With abuse of mortal men; such a thought is incorrect. For with prayer And with sacred loving care, A new and holy measure we will heedfully prepare. To the high and holy Minstrel Let the dancers onward go, And to Artemis, the maiden Of the quiver and the bow;
CHORUS
O, hear us, Far-controller, and the victory bestow. And we trust our merry music Will the matron Hera please, For she loves the pleasant Chorus And the dances such as these, —Wearing at her girdle The holy nuptial keys. To Pan and pastoral Hermes And the friendly Nymphs we pray, That they smile with gracious favour On our festival to-day, With their laughter-loving glances beaming brightly on our Play, As we dance the Double chorus To the old familiar strain, As we weave our ancient pastime On our holy day again, —Keeping fast and vigil In the Temple of the Twain. Turn the step, and change the measure, Raise a loftier music now; Come, the Lord of wine and pleasure, Evoi, Bacchus, lead us thou! Yea, for Thee we adore! Child of Semele, thee With thy glittering ivy-wreaths, Thee with music and song Ever and ever we praise. Thee with thy wood-nymphs delightedly singing. Evoi! Evoi! Evoi!
CHORUS
Over the joyous hills the sweet strange melody ringing. Hark! Cithaeron resounds, Pleased the notes to prolong; Hark! the bosky ravines And the wild slopes thunder and roar, Volleying back the song. Round thee the ivy fair With delicate tendril twines.
Cite This Text