BDELYCLEON Hard were the task, and shrewd the intent, for a Comedy-poet all too great To attempt to heal an inveterate, old disease engrained in the heart of the state. Yet, O dread Cronides, Father and Lord,
PHILOCLEON Stop, stop, don’t talk in that father-me way,
PHILOCLEON Convince me at once that I’m only a slave, or else I protest you shall die this day Albeit I then must ever abstain from the holy flesh of the victims slain.
BDELYCLEON Then listen my own little pet Papa, and smooth your brow from its frowns again. And not with pebbles precisely ranged, but roughly thus on your fingers count The tribute paid by the subject States, and just consider its whole amount; And then, in addition to this, compute the many taxes and one-per-cents, The fees and the fines, and the silver mines, the markets and harbours and sales and rents. If you take the total result of the lot, ’twill reach two thousand talents or near. And next put down the Justices’ pay, and reckon the sums they receive a year: Six thousand Justices, count them through,—there dwell no more in the land as yet, One hundred and fifty talents a year I think you will find is all they get.
PHILOCLEON Then not one tithe of our income goes to furnish forth the Justices’ pay.
BDELYCLEON No, certainly not.
PHILOCLEON And what becomes of all the rest of the revenue, pray?
BDELYCLEON Why, bless you, it goes to the pockets of those, To the rabble of Athens I’ll ever be true, I’ll always battle away for the mob.” O father, my father, ’tis owing to you: By such small phrases as these cajoled, you lift them over yourselves to reign.
BDELYCLEON And then, believe me, they soon contrive some fifty talents in bribes to gain, Extorting them out of the subject states, by hostile menace and angry frown: Hand over, they say, the tribute-pay, or else my thunders shall crush your town. You joy the while at the remnants vile, the trotters and tips of your power to gnaw. So when our knowing, acute allies the rest, the scum of the Populace, saw On a vote-box pine, and on nothingness dine, and marked how lanky and lean ye grow, They count you all as a Connas’s vote, and ever and ever on these bestow Wines, cheeses, necklaces, sesamé fruit, and jars of pickle and pots of honey, Rugs, cushions, and mantles, and cups, and crowns, and health, and vigour, and lots of money. Whilst YOU! from out of the broad domain for which on the land and the wave you toiled, None gives you so much as a garlic head, to flavour the dish when your sprats are boiled.
PHILOCLEON That’s true no doubt, for I just sent out, and bought, myself, from Eucharides three; But you wear me away by your long delay in proving my bondage and slavery.
BDELYCLEON Why is it not slavery pure and neat, when these (themselves and their parasites too) Are all in receipt of their pay, God wots, as high officials of state: whilst you Must thankful be for your obols three, those obols which ye yourselves have won
BDELYCLEON In the battle’s roar, by sea and by shore, ’mid sieges and miseries many a one. But O what throttles me most of all, is this, that under constraint you go, When some young dissolute spark comes in, some son of a Chaereas, straddling—so, With his legs apart, and his body poised, and a mincing, soft, effeminate air, And bids you Justices, one and all, betimes in the morn to the Court repair, For that any who after the signal come shall lose and forfeit their obols three. Yet come as late as he choose himself, he pockets his drachma, “Counsel’s fee.” And then if a culprit give him a bribe, he gets his fellow the job to share, And into each other’s hands they play, and manage together the suit to square. Just like two men at a saw they work, and one keeps pulling, and one gives way. While you at the Treasurer stare and gape, and never observe the tricks they play.
PHILOCLEON Is THAT what they do! O can it be true! Ah me, the depths of my being are stirred, Your statements shake my soul, and I feel I know not how, at the things I’ve heard.
BDELYCLEON And just consider when you and all might revel in affluence, free as air, How these same demagogues wheel you round, and cabin and coop you I know not where.
BDELYCLEON And you, the lord of such countless towns, from Pontus to Sardo, nought obtain Save this poor pittance you earn, and this they dole you in driblets, grain by grain, As though they were dropping oil from wool, as much forsooth as will life sustain. They MEAN you all to be poor and gaunt, and I’ll tell you, father, the reason why. They want you to know your keeper’s hand; and then if he hiss you on to fly At some helpless foe, away you go, with eager vehemence ready and rough. Since if they wished to maintain you well, the way to do it were plain enough. A thousand cities our rule obey, a thousand cities their tribute pay, Allot them twenty Athenians each, to feed and nourish from day to day, And twice ten thousand citizens there, are living immersed in dishes of hare, With creams and beestings and sumptuous fare, and garlands and coronals everywhere, Enjoying a fate that is worthy the state, and worthy the trophy on Marathon plain. Whilst now like gleaners ye all are fain to follow along in the paymaster’s train.
PHILOCLEON O what can this strange sensation mean, this numbness that over my hand is stealing? My arm no longer can hold the sword: I yield, unmanned, to a womanish feeling.
BDELYCLEON Let a panic possess them, they’re ready to give Euboea at once for the State to divide,
BDELYCLEON And engage to supply for every man full fifty bushels of wheat beside. But five poor bushels of barley each is all that you ever obtained in fact, And that doled out by the quart, while first they worry you under the Alien Act. And therefore it was that I locked you away To keep you in ease; unwilling that these With empty mouthings your age should bilk. And now I offer you here to-day Without any reserve whatever you please, Save only a draught of—Treasurer’s milk.
CHORUS ’Twas a very acute and intelligent man, whoever it was, that happened to say, Don’t make up your mind till you’ve heard both sides, for now I protest you have gained the fray. Our staves of justice, our angry mood, for ever and ever aside we lay, And we turn to talk to our old compeer, our choir-companion of many a day. Don’t be a fool: give in, give in, Nor too perverse and stubborn be; I would to Heaven my kith and kin Would show the like regard for me. Some deity, ’tis plain, befriends Your happy lot, believe, believe it; With open arms his aid he sends, Do you with open arms receive it.
BDELYCLEON I’ll give him whatever his years require, A basin of gruel, and soft attire,
BDELYCLEON And a good warm rug, and a handmaid fair, To chafe and cherish his limbs with care. —But I can’t like this, that he stands so mute, And speaks not a word nor regards my suit.
CHORUS ’Tis that his soberer thoughts review The frenzy he indulged so long, And (what he would not yield to you) He feels his former life was wrong. Perchance he’ll now amend his plan, Unbend his age to mirth and laughter, A better and a wiser man By your advice he’ll live hereafter.
PHILOCLEON O misery! O misery!
BDELYCLEON O father, why that dolorous cry?
PHILOCLEON Talk not of things like these to me! Those are my pleasures, there would I be Where the Usher cries Who has not voted? let him arise. And O that the last of the voting band By the verdict-box I could take my stand. On, on, my soul! why, where is she gone? Hah! by your leave, my shadowy one! Zounds, if I catch when in Court I’m sitting Cleon again a theft committing!
Cite This Text