Lines 999–1141

CHORUS.
Thence will you and I anoint us, darling, when the New Moon shines.

CRIER.
O yes! O yes!
Come, drain your pitchers to the trumpet’s sound,
In our old fashion. Whoso drains his first,
Shall have, for prize, a skin of—Ctesiphon.

DICAEOPOLIS.
Lads! Lassies! heard ye not the words he said?
What are ye at? Do ye not hear the Crier?
Quick! stew and roast, and turn the roasting flesh,
Unspit the haremeat, weave the coronals,
Bring the spits here, and I’ll impale the thrushes.

CHORUS.
I envy much your happy plan,
I envy more, you lucky man,
The joys you’re now possessing.

DICAEOPOLIS.
What, when around the spits you see the thrushes roasting gloriously?

CHORUS.
And that’s a saying I admire.

DICAEOPOLIS.
Boy, poke me up the charcoal fire.

CHORUS.
O listen with what cookly art
And gracious care, so trim and smart,
His own repast he’s dressing.

FARMER.
Alas! Alas!

DICAEOPOLIS.
O Heracles, who’s there?

FARMER.
An ill-starred man.

DICAEOPOLIS.
Then keep it to yourself.

FARMER.
O—for you only hold the truces, dear—
Measure me out though but five years of Peace.

DICAEOPOLIS.
What ails you?

FARMER.
Ruined! Lost my oxen twain.

DICAEOPOLIS.
Where from?

FARMER.
From Phyle. The Boeotians stole them.

DICAEOPOLIS.
And yet you are clad in white, you ill-starred loon!

FARMER.
They twain maintained me in the very lap
Of affluent muckery.

DICAEOPOLIS.
Well, what want you now?

FARMER.
Lost my two eyes, weeping my oxen twain.
Come, if you care for Dercetes of Phyle,
Rub some Peace-ointment, do, on my two eyes.

DICAEOPOLIS.
Why, bless the fool, I’m not a public surgeon.

FARMER.
Do now; I’ll maybe find my oxen twain.

DICAEOPOLIS.
No, go and weep at Pittalus’s door.

FARMER.
Do, just one single drop. Just drop me here
Into this quill one little drop of Peace.

DICAEOPOLIS.
No, not one twitterlet; take your tears elsewhere.

FARMER.
Alas! Alas! my darling yoke of oxen.

CHORUS.
He loves the Treaty’s pleasant taste;
He will not be, methinks, in haste
To let another share it.

DICAEOPOLIS.
Pour on the tripe the honey, you!
And you, the cuttle richly stew!

CHORUS.
How trumpet-like his orders sound.
Be sure the bits of eel are browned.
The words you speak, your savoury rites,
Keep sharpening so our appetites
That we can hardly bear it.

DICAEOPOLIS.
Now roast these other things and brown them nicely.

GROOMSMAN.
O Dicaeopolis!

DICAEOPOLIS.
Who’s there? who’s there?

GROOMSMAN.
A bridegroom sends you from his wedding-banquet
These bits of meat.

DICAEOPOLIS.
Well done, whoe’er he is.

GROOMSMAN.
And in return he bids you pour him out,
To keep him safely with his bride at home,
Into this ointment-pot one dram of Peace.

DICAEOPOLIS.
Take, take your meat away; I can’t abide it.
Not for ten thousand drachmas would I give him
One drop of Peace. Hey, who comes here?

GROOMSMAN.
The bridesmaid
Bringing a private message from the bride.

DICAEOPOLIS.
Well, what have you to say? What wants the bride?
(Affects to listen.)
O heaven, the laughable request she makes
To keep her bridegroom safely by her side.
I’ll do it; bring the truces; she’s a woman,
Unfit to bear the burdens of the war.
Now, hold the myrrh-box underneath, my girl.
Know you the way to use it? Tell the bride,
When they’re enrolling soldiers for the war,
To rub the bridegroom every night with this.
Now take the truces back, and bring the ladle.
I’ll fill the winecups for the Pitcher-feast.

CHORUS.
But here runs one with eyebrows puckered up.
Methinks he comes a messenger of woe.

MESSENGER.
O toils, and fights, and fighting Lamachuses!

LAMACHUS.
Who clangs around my bronze-accoutred halls?

MESSENGER.
The generals bid you take your crests and cohorts,
And hurry off this instant; to keep watch
Amongst the mountain passes in the snow.
For news has come that at this Pitcher-feast
Boeotian bandits mean to raid our lands.

LAMACHUS.
O generals, great in numbers, small in worth!
Shame that I may not even enjoy the feast.

DICAEOPOLIS.
O expedition battle-Lamachaean!

LAMACHUS.
O dear, what you! Do you insult me too?

DICAEOPOLIS.
What would you fight with Geryon, the four-winged?

LAMACHUS.
O woe!
O what a message has this Crier brought me!

DICAEOPOLIS.
Oho! what message will this runner bring me?

MESSENGER.
Dicaeopolis!

DICAEOPOLIS.
Well?

MESSENGER.
Come at once to supper,
And bring your pitcher, and your supper-chest.
The priest of Bacchus sends to fetch you thither.
And do be quick: you keep the supper waiting.
For all things else are ready and prepared,
The couches, tables, sofa-cushions, rugs,
Wreaths, sweetmeats, myrrh, the harlotry are there,
Whole-meal cakes, cheese-cakes, sesame-, honey-cakes,
And dancing-girls, Harmodius’ dearest ones.
So pray make haste.

LAMACHUS.
O wretched, wretched me!

DICAEOPOLIS.
Aye the great Gorgon ’twas you chose for patron.
Now close the house, and pack the supper up.

LAMACHUS.
Boy, bring me out my soldier’s knapsack here.

DICAEOPOLIS.
Boy, bring me out my supper-basket here.

LAMACHUS.
Boy, bring me onions, with some thymy salt.

DICAEOPOLIS.
For me, fish-fillets: onions I detest.

LAMACHUS.
Boy, bring me here a leaf of rotten fish.

DICAEOPOLIS.
A tit-bit leaf for me; I’ll toast it there.

LAMACHUS.
Now bring me here my helmet’s double plume.

DICAEOPOLIS.
And bring me here my thrushes and ring-doves.

LAMACHUS.
How nice and white this ostrich-plume to view.

DICAEOPOLIS.
How nice and brown this pigeon’s flesh to eat.

LAMACHUS.
Man, don’t keep jeering at my armour so.

DICAEOPOLIS.
Man, don’t keep peering at my thrushes so.

LAMACHUS.
Bring me the casket with the three crests in it.

DICAEOPOLIS.
Bring me the basket with the hare’s flesh in it.

LAMACHUS.
Surely the moths my crest have eaten up.

DICAEOPOLIS.
Sure this hare-soup I’ll eat before I sup.

LAMACHUS.
Fellow, I’ll thank you not to talk to ME.

DICAEOPOLIS.
Nay, but the boy and I, we can’t agree.
Come will you? bet, and Lamachus decide,
Locusts or thrushes, which the daintier are?

LAMACHUS.
Insolent knave!

DICAEOPOLIS.
(To the boy) Locusts, he says, by far.

LAMACHUS.
Boy, boy, take down the spear, and bring it here.

DICAEOPOLIS.
Boy, take the sweetbread off and bring it here.

LAMACHUS.
Hold firmly to the spear whilst I pull off The case.

DICAEOPOLIS.
And you, hold firmly to the spit.

LAMACHUS.
Boy, bring the framework to support my shield.

DICAEOPOLIS.
Boy, bring the bakemeats to support my frame.

LAMACHUS.
Bring here the grim-backed circle of the shield.

DICAEOPOLIS.
And here the cheese-backed circle of the cake.

LAMACHUS.
Is not this—mockery, plain for men to see?

DICAEOPOLIS.
Is not this—cheese-cake, sweet for men to eat?

LAMACHUS.
Pour on the oil, boy. Gazing on my shield,
I see an old man tried for cowardliness.

DICAEOPOLIS.
Pour on the honey. Gazing on my cake,
I see an old man mocking Lamachus.

LAMACHUS.
Bring me a casque, to arm the outer man.

DICAEOPOLIS.
Bring me a cask to warm the inner man.

LAMACHUS.
With this I’ll arm myself against the foe.

DICAEOPOLIS.
With this I’ll warm myself against the feast.

LAMACHUS.
Boy, lash the blankets up against the shield.

DICAEOPOLIS.
Boy, lash the supper up against the chest.

LAMACHUS.
Myself will bear my knapsack for myself.

DICAEOPOLIS.
Myself will wear my wraps, and haste away.

LAMACHUS.
Take up the shield, my boy, and bring it on.
Snowing! good lack, a wintry prospect mine.