Lines 972–1146

CHREMYLUS.
Or, not elected, sat you judging—wine?

OLD WOMAN.
You jest; but I, poor soul, am misery-stung.

CHREMYLUS.
What kind of misery stings you? tell me quick.

OLD WOMAN.
Then listen. I’d a lad that loved me well,
Poor, but so handsome, and so fair to see,
Quite virtuous too; whate’er I wished, he did
In such a nice and gentlemanly way;
And what he wanted, I in turn supplied.

CHREMYLUS.
What were the things he asked you to supply?

OLD WOMAN.
Not many: so prodigious the respect
In which he held me. ’Twould be twenty drachmas
To buy a cloak and, maybe, eight for shoes;
Then for his sisters he would want a gown,
And just one mantle for his mother’s use,
And twice twelve bushels of good wheat perchance.

CHREMYLUS.
Not many truly were the gifts he asked!
’Tis plain he held you in immense respect.

OLD WOMAN.
And these he wanted not for greed, he swore,
But for love’s sake, that when my robe he wore,
He might, by that, remember me the more.

CHREMYLUS.
A man prodigiously in love indeed!

OLD WOMAN.
Aye, but the scamp’s quite other-minded now.
He’s altogether changed from what he was.
So when I sent him this delicious cake,
And all these bon-bons here upon the tray,
Adding a whispered message that I hoped
To come at even—

CHREMYLUS.
Tell me what he did?

OLD WOMAN.
He sent them back, and sent this cream-cake too,
Upon condition that I come no more;
And said withal, Long since, in war’s alarms
Were the Milesians lusty men-at-arms.

CHREMYLUS.
O, then the lad’s not vicious; now he’s rich
He cares for broth no longer, though before,
When he was poor, he snapped up anything.

OLD WOMAN.
O, by the Twain, and every day before,
He used to come, a suppliant, to my door.

CHREMYLUS.
What, for your funeral?

OLD WOMAN.
No, he was but fain
My voice to hear.

CHREMYLUS.
Your bounty to obtain.

OLD WOMAN.
When in the dumps, he’d smother me with love,
Calling me “little duck” and “little dove.”

CHREMYLUS.
And then begged something for a pair of shoes.

OLD WOMAN.
And if perchance, when riding in my coach
At the Great Mysteries, some gallant threw
A glance my way, he’d beat me black and blue,
So very jealous had the young man grown.

CHREMYLUS.
Aye, aye, he liked to eat his cake alone.

OLD WOMAN.
He vowed my hands were passing fair and white.

CHREMYLUS.
With twenty drachmas in them—well he might.

OLD WOMAN.
And much he praised the fragrance of my skin.

CHREMYLUS.
No doubt, no doubt, if Thasian you poured in.

OLD WOMAN.
And then he swore my glance was soft and sweet.

CHREMYLUS.
He was no fool: he knew the way to eat
The goodly substance of a fond old dame.

OLD WOMAN.
O then, my dear, the God is much to blame.
He said he’d right the injured, every one.

CHREMYLUS.
What shall he do? speak, and the thing is done.

OLD WOMAN.
He should, by Zeus, this graceless youth compel
To recompense the love that loved him well;
Or no good fortune on the lad should light.

CHREMYLUS.
Did he not then repay you every night?

OLD WOMAN.
He’d never leave me all my life, he said.

CHREMYLUS.
And rightly too; but now he counts you dead.

OLD WOMAN.
My dear, with love’s fierce pangs I’ve pined away.

CHREMYLUS.
Nay rather, grown quite rotten, I should say.

OLD WOMAN.
O, you could draw me through a ring, I know.

CHREMYLUS.
A ring? A hoop that round a sieve could go.

OLD WOMAN.
O, here comes he of whom I’ve been complaining
All this long while; this is that very lad!
Bound to some revel surely.

CHREMYLUS.
So it seems.
At least, he has got the chaplets and the torch.

YOUTH.
Friends, I salute you.

OLD WOMAN.
Eh?

YOUTH.
Mine ancient flame,
How very suddenly you’ve got grey hair.

OLD WOMAN.
O me, the insults I am forced to bear.

CHREMYLUS.
’Tis years since last he saw you, I dare say.

OLD WOMAN.
What years, you wretch? He saw me yesterday!

CHREMYLUS.
Why then, his case is different from the rest;
When in his cups, methinks, he sees the best.

OLD WOMAN.
No, this is just his naughty, saucy way.

YOUTH.
O Gods of eld! Poseidon of the Main!
What countless wrinkles does her face contain!

OLD WOMAN.
O! O!
Keep your torch off me, do.

CHREMYLUS.
In that she’s right.
For if one spark upon her skin should light,
’Twould set her blazing, like a shrivelled wreath.

YOUTH.
Come, shall we play together?

OLD WOMAN.
Where? for shame!

YOUTH.
Here with some nuts.

OLD WOMAN.
And what’s your little game?

YOUTH.
How many teeth you’ve got.

CHREMYLUS.
How many teeth?
I’ll make a guess at that. She’s three, no, four.

YOUTH.
Pay up; you’ve lost: one grinder, and no more.

OLD WOMAN.
Wretch, are you crazy that you make your friend
A washing-pot before so many men?

YOUTH.
Were you well washed, ’twould do you good belike.

CHREMYLUS.
No, no, she’s got up for the market now.
But if her white-lead paint were washed away,
Too plain you’d see the tatters of her face.

OLD WOMAN.
So old and saucy! Are you crazy too?

YOUTH.
What, is he trying to corrupt you, love,
Toying and fondling you when I’m not looking?

OLD WOMAN.
By Aphrodite, no, you villain you!

CHREMYLUS.
No, no, by Hecate, I’m not so daft.
But come, my boy, I really can’t allow you
To hate the girl.

YOUTH.
Hate her? I love her dearly.

CHREMYLUS.
Yet she complains of—

YOUTH.
What?

CHREMYLUS.
Your flouts and jeers,
Sending her word Long since, in war’s alarms
Were the Milesians lusty men-at-arms.

YOUTH.
Well, I won’t fight you for her sake.

CHREMYLUS.
How mean you?

YOUTH.
For I respect your age, since be you sure
It is not everybody I’d permit
To take my girl. You, take her and begone.

CHREMYLUS.
I know, I know your drift; no longer now
You’d keep her company.

OLD WOMAN.
Who’ll permit that?

YOUTH.
I won’t have anything to do with one
Who has been the sport of thirteen thousand—
suns.

CHREMYLUS.
But, howsoever, as you drank the wine,
You should, in justice, also drink the dregs.

YOUTH.
Pheugh! they’re such very old and fusty dregs!

CHREMYLUS.
Won’t a dreg-strainer remedy all that?

YOUTH.
Well, go ye in. I want to dedicate
The wreaths I am wearing to this gracious God.

OLD WOMAN.
Aye then, I want to tell him something too.

YOUTH.
Aye then, I’ll not go in.

CHREMYLUS.
Come, don’t be frightened.
Why, she won’t ravish you.

YOUTH.
I’m glad to hear it.
I’ve had enough of her in days gone by.

OLD WOMAN.
Come, go you on; I’ll follow close behind.

CHREMYLUS.
O Zeus and King, the ancient woman sticks
Tight as a limpet to her poor young man.

CARIO.
Who’s knocking at the door? Hallo, what’s this!
’Twas nobody it seems. The door shall smart,
Making that row for nothing.

HERMES.
Hoi, you sir,
Stop, Cario! don’t go in.

CARIO.
Hallo, you fellow,
Was that you banging at the door so loudly?

HERMES.
No, I was going to when you flung it open.
But run you in and call your master out,
And then his wife, and then his little ones,
And then the serving-men, and then the dog,
And then yourself, and then the sow.

CARIO.
[Severely] Now tell me
What all this means.

HERMES.
It means that Zeus is going
To mix you up, you rascal, in one dish,
And hurl you all into the Deadman’s Pit!

CARIO.
Now for this herald must the tongue be cut.
But what’s the reason that he is going to do us
Such a bad turn?

HERMES.
Because ye have done the basest
And worst of deeds. Since Wealth began to see,
No laurel, meal-cake, victim, frankincense,
Has any man on any altar laid
Or aught beside.

CARIO.
Or ever will; for scant
Your care for us in the evil days gone by.

HERMES.
And for the other Gods I’m less concerned,
But I myself am smashed and ruined.

CARIO.
Good.

HERMES.
For until now the tavern-wives would bring
From early dawn figs, honey, tipsy-cake,
Titbits for Hermes, such as Hermes loved;
But now I idly cross my legs and starve.

CARIO.
And rightly too who, though such gifts you got,
Would wrong the givers.

HERMES.
O, my hapless lot!
O me, the Fourth-day cake in days gone by!

CARIO.
You want the absent; nought avails your cry.

HERMES.
O me, the gammon which was erst my fare!

CARIO.
Here play your game on bladders, in the air.

HERMES.
O me, the inwards which I ate so hot!

CARIO.
In your own inwards now a pain you’ve got.

HERMES.
O me, the tankard, brimmed with half and half!

CARIO.
Begone your quickest, taking this to quaff.

HERMES.
Will you not help a fellow-knave to live?

CARIO.
If anything you want is mine to give.

HERMES.
O, could you get me but one toothsome loaf,
Or from the sacrifice you make within
One slice of lusty meat?

CARIO.
No exports here.

HERMES.
O, whenso’er your master’s goods you stole,
’Twas I that caused you to escape detection.

CARIO.
Upon condition, ruffian, that you shared
The spoils. A toothsome cake would go to you.

HERMES.
And then you ate it every bit yourself.

CARIO.
But you, remember, never shared the kicks
Were I perchance detected at my tricks.