CHORUS
Step out, step out, my comrades stout: no loitering, Comias, pound along, You’re shirking now, you used, I vow, to pull as tough as leathern thong, Yet now, with ease, Charinades can walk a brisker pace than you. Ho! Strymodore of Conthylé, the best of all our dicast crew, Has old Euergides appeared, and Chabes too from Phlya, pray? Ah! here it strains, the poor remains, alas! alas! alack the day, Of that mad set, I mind it yet, when once we paced our nightly round, In years gone by, both you and I, along Byzantium’s wall, and found And stole away the baker’s tray, and sliced it up, and chopped it well, ’A merry blaze therewith to raise, and so we cooked our pimpernel. On, on again, with might and main: for Laches’ turn is come to-day: Quick, look alive, a splendid hive of wealth the fellow’s got, they say.
CHORUS And Cleon too, our patron true, enjoined us each betimes to bring Of anger sore an ample store, a good three days’ provisioning: On all the man’s unrighteous plans a vengeance well-deserved to take. Come, every dear and tried compeer, come, quickly come, ere morning break, And as you go, be sure you throw the light around on every side; Lest somewhere nigh a stone may lie, and we therefrom be damnified.
BOY O father, father, here’s some mud! look sharp or in you’ll go.
CHORUS Pick up a stick, and trim the wick, a better light to show.
BOY Nay, father, with my finger, thus, I choose to trim the lamp.
CHORUS How dare you rout the wick about, you little wasteful scamp, And that with oil so scarce? but no, it don’t disturb your quiet, However dear the oil may be, when I have got to buy it.
BOY If with your knuckles once again you’monish us, I swear We’ll douse the light, and take to flight, and leave you floundering there. Then wading on without the lamp in darkness, I’ll be bound You’ll stir and splash the mud about, like snipes in marshy ground.
CHORUS Ah, greater men than you, my boy, ’tis often mine to beat.
CHORUS
But, bless me, this is filth indeed I feel beneath my feet: Ay, and within four days from this, or sooner, it is plain, God will send down upon our town a fresh supply of rain: So dense and thick around the wick these thieves collect and gather, And that’s, as everybody knows, a sign of heavy weather. Well, well, ’tis useful for the fruits, and all the backward trees, To have a timely fall of rain, and eke a good North breeze. But how is this? Our friend not here! how comes it he’s so slack? By Zeus, he never used to be at all a hanger-back. He always marched before us all, on legal cares intent, And some old tune of Phrynichus he warbled as he went. O he’s a wonder for the songs! Come, comrades, one and all, Come stand around the house, and sing, its master forth to call. If once he hears me tuning up, I know it won’t be long Before he comes creep, creeping out, from pleasure at the song. How is it our friend is not here to receive us? Why comes he not forth from his dwelling? Can it be that he’s had the misfortune to lose His one pair of shoes;
CHORUS Or striking his toe in the dark, by the grievous Contusion is lamed, and his ankle inflamed? Or his groin has, it may be, a swelling. He of us all, I ween, Was evermore the austerest, and most keen. Alone no prayers he heeded: Whene’er for grace they pleaded, He bent (like this) his head, You cook a stone, he said. Is it all of that yesterday’s man who cajoled us, And slipped through our hands, the deceiver, Pretending a lover of Athens to be, Pretending that he Was the first, of the Samian rebellion that told us? Our friend may be sick with disgust at the trick, And be now lying ill of a fever. That would be like him quite. But now up, up, nor gnaw your soul with spite There comes a traitor base, A wealthy rogue from Thrace. Safe in our toils we’ve got him, Up, up, old friend, and pot him! On with you, boy, on with you.
BOY Father, if a boon I pray, Will you grant it, father, eh?
CHORUS Certainly I will, my son. Tell me what you’d have me buy. Dibs, my son? Hey, my son?— Dibs it is, undoubtedly.
BOY Dibs, my father! No, my father! Figs! for they are sweeter far.
CHORUS You be hanged first: yet you shall not Have them, monkey, when you are.
BOY Then, my father, woe betide you! Not another step I’ll guide you.
CHORUS Is it not enough that I With this paltry pay must buy Fuel, bread, and sauce for three? Must I needs buy figs for thee!
BOY Father, if the Archon say That the Court won’t sit to-day. Tell me truly, father mine, Have we wherewithal to dine? O my father, should not we Then in “Straits of Helle”’ be?
CHORUS Out upon it! out upon it! Then, indeed, I should not know For a little bit of supper Whither in this world to go.
BOY Why, my mother, didst thou breed me, giving nothing else to feed me, But a store of legal woe?
CHORUS Empty scrip! O empty show, Bootless, fruitless ornament!
BOY O! O! woe! woe! Ours to sorrow and lament,
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