FIRST WOMAN Hoy! Hoy there! Hoy! He’s got my child, he’s got my darling, O! He’s snatched my little baby from my breast. O, stop him, stop him! O, he’s gone. O! O!
MNESILOCHUS Aye, weep! you ne’er shall dandle him again, Unless you loose me. Soon shall these small limbs, Smit with cold edge of sacrificial knife, Incarnadine this altar.
FIRST WOMAN O! O! O! Help, women, help me. Sisters, help, I pray.
FIRST WOMAN Charge to the rescue, shout, and rout, and scout him, Don’t see me lose my baby, my one pet.
CHORUS Alas! Alas! Mercy on me! what do I see? What can it be? What, will deeds of shameless violence never, never, never, end? What’s the matter, what’s he up to, what’s he doing now, my friend?
MNESILOCHUS Doing what I hope will crush you out of all your bold assurance.
CHORUS Zounds, his words are very dreadful; more than dreadful, past endurance.
FIRST WOMAN Yes, indeed, they’re very dreadful, and he’s got my baby too.
CHORUS Impudence rare! Look at him there, Doing such deeds, and I vow and declare Never minding or caring—
MNESILOCHUS Or likely to care.
CHORUS Here you are come: here you shall stay, Never again shall you wander away; Wander away, glad to display All the misdeeds you have done us to-day, But dear you shall pay.
MNESILOCHUS There at least I’m hoping, ladies, I shall find your words untrue.
CHORUS What God do you think his assistance will lend, You wicked old man, to escort you away?
MNESILOCHUS Aha, but I’ve captured your baby, my friend, And I shan’t let her go, for the best you can say.
CHORUS But no, by the Goddesses Twain, Not long shall our threats be in vain,
CHORUS Not long shall you flout at our pain. Unholy your deeds, and you’ll find That we shall repay you in kind, And perchance you will alter your mind When Fate, veering round like the blast, In its clutches has seized you at last, Very fast. Comrades, haste, collect the brushwood: pile it up without delay: Pile it, heap it, stow it, throw it, burn and fire and roast and slay.
FIRST WOMAN Come, Mania, come; let’s run and fetch the fagots. (To Mn.) Ah, wretch, you’ll be a cinder before night.
MNESILOCHUS (Busily engaged in unpacking the baby) With all my heart. Now I’ll undo these wrappers, These Cretan long clothes; and remember, darling, It’s all your mother that has served you thus. What have we here? a flask, and not a baby! A flask of wine, for all its Persian slippers. O ever thirsty, ever tippling women, O ever ready with fresh schemes for drink, To vintners what a blessing: but to us And all our goods and chattels what a curse!
FIRST WOMAN Drag in the fagots, Mania; pile them up.
MNESILOCHUS Aye, pile away; but tell me, is this baby Really your own?
FIRST WOMAN My very flesh and blood.
MNESILOCHUS Your flesh and blood?
FIRST WOMAN By Artemis it is.
MNESILOCHUS Is it a pint?
FIRST WOMAN O, what have you been doing?
FIRST WOMAN O, you have stripped my baby of its clothes. Poor tiny morsel!
MNESILOCHUS (holding up a large bottle) Tiny?
FIRST WOMAN Yes, indeed.
MNESILOCHUS What is its age? Three Pitcher-feasts or four?
FIRST WOMAN Well, thereabouts, a little over now. Please give it back.
MNESILOCHUS No thank you, not exactly.
FIRST WOMAN We’ll burn you then.
MNESILOCHUS O, burn me by all means; But anyhow I’ll sacrifice this victim.
FIRST WOMAN O! O! O! Make me your victim, anything you like; But spare the child.
MNESILOCHUS A loving mother truly. But this dear child must needs be sacrificed.
FIRST WOMAN My child! my child! give me the bason, Mania, I’ll catch my darling’s blood at any rate.
MNESILOCHUS And so you shall; I’ll not deny you that.
FIRST WOMAN You spiteful man! you most ungenerous man!
MNESILOCHUS This skin, fair priestess, is your perquisite.
FIRST WOMAN What is my perquisite?
MNESILOCHUS This skin, fair priestess.
CRITYLLA O Mica, who has robbed thee of thy flower, And snatched thy babe, thine only one, away?
FIRST WOMAN This villain here: but I’m so glad you’re come. You see he doesn’t run away, while I Call the police, with Cleisthenes, to help us.
MNESILOCHUS (soliloquizes) O me, what hope of safety still remains?
MNESILOCHUS
What plan? what stratagem? My worthy cousin, Who first involved me in this dreadful scrape, “He cometh not.” Suppose I send him word. But how to send it? Hah, I know a trick Out of his Palamede. I’ll send a message Written on oar-blades. Tush! I’ve got no oar-blades. What shall I do for oar-blades? Why not send These votive slabs instead? The very thing. Oar-blades are wood, and slabs are wood. I’ll try. Now for the trick; fingers be quick; Do what you can for my notable plan. Slab, have the grace to permit me to trace Grooves with my knife on your beautiful face, The tale of my woe it is yours for to show. O, O, what a furrow! I never did see Such a horrible “R” as I’ve made it to be. Well, that must do; so fly away you, Hither and thither, off, off, and away. Do not delay for a moment, I pray.
Cite This Text