The Frogs

The Project Guten­berg EBook of The Frogs, by Aristo­phanes #6 in our se­ries by Aristo­phanes

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Ti­tle: The Frogs

Au­thor: Aristo­phanes

Re­lease Date: April, 2005 [EBook #7998] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of sched­ule] [This file was first post­ed on June 10, 2003]

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTEN­BERG EBOOK THE FROGS ***

Pro­duced by Ted Garvin, Mar­vin A. Hodges, Charles Franks and the On­line Dis­tribut­ed Proof­read­ing Team.

THE HAR­VARD CLAS­SICS

EDIT­ED BY CHARLES W ELIOT LLD

NINE GREEK DRA­MAS

BY ÆSCHY­LUS, SOPHO­CLES, EU­RIPI­DES AND ARISTO­PHANES

TRANS­LA­TIONS BY E D A MOR­SHEAD E B PLUMPTRE GILBERT MUR­RAY AND B B ROGERS

WITH IN­TRO­DUC­TIONS AND NOTES

VOL­UME 8

* * * * *

THE FROGS OF ARISTO­PHANES

IN­TRO­DUC­TO­RY NOTE

Aristo­phanes, _the great­est of com­ic writ­ers in Greek and in the opin­ion of many, in any lan­guage, is the on­ly one of the At­tic co­me­di­ans any of whose works has sur­vived in com­plete form He was born in Athens about the mid­dle of the fifth cen­tu­ry B C, and had his first com­edy pro­duced when he was so young that his name was with­held on ac­count of his youth. He is cred­it­ed with over forty plays, eleven of which sur­vive, along with the names and frag­ments of some twen­ty-​six oth­ers. His satire deal with po­lit­ical, re­li­gious, and lit­er­ary top­ics, and with all its hu­mor and fan­cy is ev­ident­ly the out­come of pro­found con­vic­tion and a gen­uine pa­tri­otism. The At­tic com­edy was pro­duced at the fes­ti­vals of Diony­sus, which were marked by great li­cense, and to this, rather than to the in­di­vid­ual taste of the po­et, must be as­cribed the un­doubt­ed coarse­ness of many of the jests. Aristo­phanes seems, in­deed, to have been re­gard­ed by his con­tem­po­raries as a man of no­ble char­ac­ter. He died short­ly af­ter the pro­duc­tion of his “Plu­tus,” in 388 B. C.

“The Frogs” was pro­duced the year af­ter the death of Eu­ripi­des, and laments the de­cay of Greek tragedy which Aristo­phanes at­tribut­ed to that writ­er. It is an ad­mirable ex­am­ple of the bril­liance of his style, and of that min­gling of wit and po­et­ry with rol­lick­ing hu­mor and keen satir­ical point which is his chief char­ac­ter­is­tic. Here, as else­where, he stands for tra­di­tion against in­no­va­tion of all kinds, whether in pol­itics, re­li­gion, or art. The hos­til­ity to Eu­ripi­des dis­played here and in sev­er­al oth­er plays, like his at­tacks on Socrates, is a re­sult of this at­ti­tude of con­ser­vatism. The present play is no­table al­so as a piece of elab­orate if not over-​se­ri­ous lit­er­ary crit­icism from the pen of a great po­et._

* * * * *

THE FROGS

OF ARISTO­PHANES

DRAMA­TIS PER­SONÆ

THE GOD DIONY­SUS

XAN­THIAS, _his slave_

AESCHY­LUS

EU­RIPI­DES

HER­ACLES

PLU­TO

CHARON AEA­CUS, _house porter to Plu­to_

A CORPSE

A MAID­SER­VANT OF PERSE­PHONE

A LAND­LA­DY IN HADES

PLATHANE, _her ser­vant_

A CHO­RUS OP FROGS

A CHO­RUS OF INI­TI­AT­ED PER­SONS

_At­ten­dants at a Fu­ner­al;

Wom­en wor­ship­ping Iac­chus;

Ser­vants of Plu­to, &c._

_Xan­thias_

Shall I crack any of those old jokes, mas­ter, At which the au­di­ence nev­er fail to laugh?

DIONY­SUS. Aye, what you will, ex­cept _I’m get­ting crushed:_ Fight shy of that: I’m sick of that al­ready.

XAN. Noth­ing else smart?

DIO. Aye, save _my shoul­der’s aching._

XAN. Come now, that com­ical joke?

DIO. With all my heart. On­ly be care­ful not to shift your pole, And–

XAN. What?

DIO. And vow that you’ve a belly­ache.

XAN. May I not say I’m over­bur­dened so That if none ease me, I must ease my­self?

DIO. For mer­cy’s sake, not till I’m go­ing to vom­it.

XAN. What! must I bear these bur­dens, and not make One of the jokes Ameip­sias and Ly­cis And Phryn­ichus, in ev­ery play they write, Put in the mouths of all their bur­den-​bear­ers?

DIO. Don’t make them; no! I tell you when I see Their plays, and hear those jokes, I come away More than a twelve­month old­er than I went.

XAN. O thrice un­lucky neck of mine, which now Is _get­ting crushed_, yet must not crack its joke!

DIO. Now is not this fine pam­pered in­so­lence When I my­self, Diony­sus, son of–Pip­kin, Toil on afoot, and let this fel­low ride, Tak­ing no trou­ble, and no bur­den bear­ing?

XAN. What, don’t I bear?

DIO. How can you when you’re rid­ing?

XAN. Why, I bear these.

DIO. How?

XAN. Most un­will­ing­ly.

DIO. Does not the don­key bear the load you’re bear­ing?

XAN. Not what I bear my­self: by Zeus, not he.

DIO. How can you bear, when you are borne your­self?

XAN. Don’t know: but any­how _my shoul­der’s aching_.

DIO. Then since you say the don­key helps you not, You lift him up and car­ry him in turn.

XAN. O hang it all! why didn’t I fight at sea? You should have smart­ed bit­ter­ly for this.

DIO. Get down, you ras­cal; I’ve been trudg­ing on Till now I’ve reached the por­tal, where I’m go­ing First to turn in. Boy! Boy! I say there, Boy!

HER­ACLES. Who banged the door? How like a pranc­ing Cen­taur He drove against it! Mer­cy o’ me, what’s this?

DIO. Boy.

XAN. Yes.

DIO. Did you ob­serve?

XAN. What?

DIO. How alarmed He is.

XAN. Aye tru­ly, lest you’ve lost your wits.

HER. O by Deme­ter, I can’t choose but laugh. Bit­ing my lips won’t stop me. Ha! ha! ha!

DIO. Pray you, come hith­er, I have need of you.

HER. I vow I can’t help laugh­ing, I can’t help it. A li­on’s hide up­on a yel­low silk, a club and buskin! What’s it all about? Where were you go­ing?

DIO. I was serv­ing late­ly aboard the–Cleis­thenes.

HER. And fought?

DIO. And sank more than a dozen of the en­emy’s ships.

HER. You two?

DIO. We two.

HER. And then I awoke, and lo!

DIO. There as, on deck, I’m read­ing to my­self The An­drome­da, a sud­den pang of long­ing Shoots through my heart, you can’t con­ceive how keen­ly.

HER. How big a pang.

DIO. A small one, Molon’s size.

HER. Caused by a wom­an?

DIO. No.

HER. A boy?

DIO. No, no.

HER. A man?

DIO. Ah! ah!

HER. Was it for Cleis­thenes?

DIO. Don’t mock me, broth­er; on my life I am In a bad way: such fierce de­sire con­sumes me.

HER. Aye, lit­tle broth­er? how?

DIO. I can’t de­scribe it. But yet I’ll tell you in a rid­dling way. Have you e’er felt a sud­den lust for soup?

HER. Soup! Zeus-​a-​mer­cy, yes, ten thou­sand times.

DIO. Is the thing clear, or must I speak again?

HER. Not of the soup: I’m clear about the soup.

DIO. Well, just that sort of pang de­vours my heart For lost Eu­ripi­des.

HER. A dead man too.

DIO. And no one shall per­suade me not to go af­ter the man.

HER. Do you mean be­low, to Hades?

DIO. And low­er still, if there’s a low­er still.

HER. What on earth for?

DIO. I want a gen­uine po­et, “For some are not, and those that are, are bad.”

HER. What! does not Io­phon live?

DIO. Well, he’s the sole Good thing re­main­ing, if even he is good. For even of that I’m not ex­act­ly cer­tain.

HER. If go you must, there’s Sopho­cles–he comes Be­fore Eu­ripi­des–why not take _him_?

DIO. Not till I’ve tried if Io­phon’s coin rings true When he’s alone, apart from Sopho­cles. Be­sides, Eu­ripi­des the crafty rogue, Will find a thou­sand shifts to get away, But _he_ was easy here, is easy there.

HER. But Agath­on, where is he?

DIO. He has gone and left us, A ge­nial po­et, by his friends much missed.

HER. Gone where?

DIO. To join the blessed in their ban­quets.

HER. But what of Xen­ocles?

DIO. O he be hanged!

HER. Pythangelus?

XAN. But nev­er a word of me, Not though my shoul­der’s chafed so ter­ri­bly.

HER. But have you not a shoal of lit­tle song­sters, Trage­di­ans by the myr­iad, who can chat­ter A fur­long faster than Eu­ripi­des?

DIO. Those be mere vin­tage-​leav­ings, jab­ber­ers, choirs Of swal­low-​broods, de­graders of their art, Who get one cho­rus, and are seen no more, The Mus­es’ love once gained. But O my friend, Search where you will, you’ll nev­er find a true Cre­ative ge­nius, ut­ter­ing startling things.

HER. Cre­ative? how do you mean?

DIO. I mean a man Who’ll dare some nov­el ven­ture­some con­ceit, _Air, Zeus’s cham­ber_, or _Time’s foot_, or this, _’Twas not my mind that swore: my tongue com­mit­ted A lit­tle per­jury on its own ac­count._

HER. You like that style?

DIO. Like it? I dote up­on it.

HER. I vow it’s rib­ald non­sense, and you know it.

DIO. “Rule not my mind”: you’ve got a house to mind.

HER. Re­al­ly and tru­ly though ’tis pal­try stuff.

DIO. Teach me to dine!

XAN. But nev­er a word of me.

DIO. But tell me tru­ly–’twas for this I came Dressed up to mim­ic you–what friends re­ceived And en­ter­tained you when you went be­low To bring back Cer­berus, in case I need them. And tell me too the havens, foun­tains, shops, Roads, rest­ing-​places, stews, re­fresh­ment rooms, Towns, lodg­ings, hostess­es, with whom were found The fewest bugs.

XAN. But nev­er a word of me.

HER. You are re­al­ly game to go?

DIO. O drop that, can’t you? And tell me this: of all the roads you know Which is the quick­est way to get to Hades? I want one not too warm, nor yet too cold.

HER. Which shall I tell you first? which shall it be? There’s one by rope and bench: you launch away And–hang your­self.

DIO. No thank you: that’s too sti­fling.

HER. Then there’s a track, a short and beat­en cut. By pes­tle and mor­tar.

DIO. Hem­lock, do you mean?

HER. Just so.

DIO. No, that’s too death­ly cold a way; You have hard­ly start­ed ere your shins get numbed.

HER. Well, would you like a steep and swift de­scent?

DIO. Aye, that’s the style: my walk­ing pow­ers are small.

HER. Go down to the Ce­rame­icus.

DIO. And do what?

HER. Climb to the tow­er’s top pin­na­cle–

DIO. And then?

HER. Ob­serve the torch-​race start­ed, and when all The mul­ti­tude is shout­ing _Let them go_, Let your­self go.

DIO. Go whith­er?

HER. To the ground.

DIO. O that would break my brain’s two en­velopes. I’ll not try that

HER. Which will you try?

DIO. The way you went your­self.

HER. A par­lous voy­age that, For first you’ll come to an enor­mous lake Of fath­om­less depth.

DIO. And how am I to cross?

HER. An an­cient mariner will row you over In a wee boat, _so_ big. The fare’s two obols.

DIO. Fie! The pow­er two obols have, the whole world through! How came they thith­er?

HER. The­seus took them down. And next you’ll see great snakes and sav­age mon­sters In tens of thou­sands.

DIO. You needn’t try to scare me, I’m go­ing to go.

HER. Then wel­ter­ing seas of filth And ev­er-​rip­pling dung: and plunged there­in, Whoso has wronged the stranger here on earth, Or robbed his boylove of the promised pay, Or swinged his moth­er, or pro­fane­ly smit­ten His fa­ther’s cheek, or sworn an oath for­sworn, Or copied out a speech of Mor­simus.

DIO. There too, perdie, should _he_ be plunged, whoe’er Has danced the sword-​dance of Cine­sias.

HER. And next the breath of flutes will float around you, And glo­ri­ous sun­shine, such as ours, you’ll see, And myr­tle groves, and hap­py bands who clap Their hands in tri­umph, men and wom­en too.

DIO. And who are they?

HER. The hap­py mys­tic bands.

XAN. And I’m the don­key in the mys­tery show. But I’ll not stand it, not one in­stant longer.

HER. Who’ll tell you ev­ery­thing you want to know. You’ll find them dwelling close be­side the road You are go­ing to trav­el, just at Plu­to’s gate. And fare thee well, my broth­er.

DIO. And to you Good cheer.

(_To Xan._) Now sir­rah, pick you up the traps.

XAN. Be­fore I’ve put them down?

DIO. And quick­ly too.

XAN. No, prithee, no; but hire a body, one They’re car­ry­ing out, on pur­pose for the trip.

DIO. If I can’t find one?

XAN. Then I’ll take them.

DIO. Good. And see! they are car­ry­ing out a body now. Hal­lo! you there, you dead­man, are you will­ing To car­ry down our lit­tle traps to Hades?

CORPSE. What are they?

DIO. These.

CORP. Two drach­mas for the job?

DIO. Nay, that’s too much.

CORP. Out of the path­way, you!

DIO. Beshrew thee, stop: may-​be we’ll strike a bar­gain.

CORP. Pay me two drach­mas, or it’s no use talk­ing.

DIO. One and a half.

CORP. I’d liefer live again!

XAN. How ab­so­lute the knave is! He be hanged! I’ll go my­self.

DIO. You’re the right sort, my man. Now to the fer­ry.

CHARON. Yoh, up! lay her to.

XAN. What­ev­er’s that?

DIO. Why, that’s the lake, by Zeus, Where­of he spake, and yon’s the fer­ry-​boat.

XAN. Po­sei­don, yes, and that old fel­low’s Charon.

DIO. Charon! O wel­come, Charon! wel­come, Charon.

CHAR. Who’s for the Rest from ev­ery pain and ill? Who’s for the Lethe’s plain? the Don­key-​shear­ings? Who’s for Cer­be­ria? Tae­narum? or the Ravens?

DIO. I.

CHAR. Hur­ry in.

DIO. But where are you go­ing re­al­ly? In truth to the Ravens?

CHAR. Aye, for your be­hoof. Step in.

DIO. (_To Xan._) Now, lad.

CHAR. A slave? I take no slave, Un­less he has fought for his bodyrights at sea.

XAN. I couldn’t go. I’d got the eye-​dis­ease.

CHAR. Then fetch a cir­cuit round about the lake.

XAN. Where must I wait?

CHAR. Be­side the With­er­ing stone, Hard by the Rest.

DIO. You un­der­stand?

XAN. Too well. O, what ill omen crost me as I start­ed!

CHAR. (_To DIO._) Sit to the oar. (_Call­ing._) Who else for the boat? Be quick.

(_To DIO._) Hi! what are you do­ing?

DIO. What am I do­ing? Sit­ting On to the oar. You told me to, your­self.

CHAR. Now sit you there, you lit­tle Potgut.

DIO. So?

CHAR. Now stretch your arms full length be­fore you.

DIO. So?

CHAR. Come, don’t keep fool­ing; plant your feet, and now Pull with a will.

DIO. Why, how am _I_ to pull? I’m not an oars­man, sea­man, Salamini­an. I can’t!

CHAR. You can. Just dip your oar in once, You’ll hear the loveli­est tim­ing songs.

DIO. What from?

CHAR. Frog-​swans, most won­der­ful.

DIO. Then give the word.

CHAR. Heave ahoy! heave ahoy!!

FROGS.

Brekekekex, ko-​ax, ko-​ax! Brekekekex, ko-​ax, ko-​ax! We chil­dren of the foun­tain and the lake Let us wake Our full choir-​shout, as the flutes are ring­ing out, Our sym­pho­ny of clear-​voiced song. The song we used to love in the Marsh­land up above, In praise of DIOny­sus to pro­duce, Of Nysaean DIOny­sus, son of Zeus, When the rev­el-​tip­sy throng, all cra­pu­lous and gay, To our precinct reeled along on the holy Pitch­er day. Brekekekex, ko-​ax, ko-​ax.

DIO. O, dear! O dear! now I de­clare I’ve got a bump up­on my rump.

FR. Brekekekex, ko-​ax, ko-​ax.

DIO. But you, per­chance, don’t care.

FR. Brekekekex, ko-​ax, ko-​ax.

DIO. Hang you, and your ko-​ax­ing too! There’s noth­ing but ko-​ax with you.

FR. That is right, Mr. Busy­body, right! For the Mus­es of the lyre love us well; And horn­foot Pan who plays on the pipe his jo­cund lays; And Apol­lo, Harp­er bright, in our Cho­rus takes de­light For the strong reed’s sake which I grow with­in my lake To be gir­dled in his lyre’s deep shell. Brekekekex, ko-​ax, ko-​ax.

DIO.

My hands are blis­tered very sore; My stern be­low is swel­ter­ing so, ‘Twill soon, I know, up­turn and roar Brekekekex, ko-​ax, ko-​ax. O tune­ful race, O pray give o’er, O sing no more.

FR. Ah, no! ah, no! Loud and loud­er our chant must flow. Sing if ev­er ye sang of yore, When in sun­ny and glo­ri­ous days Through the rush­es and marsh-​flags spring­ing On we swept, in the joy of singing Myr­iad-​di­vine rounde­lays. Or when flee­ing the storm, we went Down to the depths, and our choral song Wild­ly raised to a loud and long Bub­ble-​burst­ing ac­com­pa­ni­ment.

FR. and DIO. Brekekekex, ko-​ax, ko-​ax.

DIO. This tim­ing song I take from you.

FR. That’s a dread­ful thing to do.

DIO. Much more dread­ful, if I row Till I burst my­self, I trow.

FR. and DIO. Brekekekex, ko-​ax, ko-​ax.

DIO. Go, hang your­selves; for what care I?

FR. All the same we’ll shout and cry, Stretch­ing all our throats with song, Shout­ing, cry­ing, all day long.

FR. and DIO. Brekekekex, ko-​ax, ko-​ax.

DIO. In this you’ll nev­er, nev­er win.

FR. This you shall not beat us in.

DIO. No, nor ye pre­vail o’er me. Nev­er! nev­er! I’ll my song Shout, if need be, all day long, Un­til I’ve learned to mas­ter your ko-​ax. Brekekekex, ko-​ax, ko-​ax. I thought I’d put a stop to your ko-​ax.

CHAR. Stop! Easy! Take the oar and push her to now pay your fare and go.

DIO. Here ’tis: two obols. Xan­thias! where’s Xan­thias? Is it Xan­thias there?

XAN. Hoi, hoi!

DIO. Come hith­er.

XAN. Glad to meet you, mas­ter.

DIO. What have you there?

XAN. Noth­ing but filth and dark­ness.

DIO. But tell me, did you see the par­ri­cides And per­jured folk he men­tioned?

XAN. Didn’t you?

DIO. Po­sei­don, yes. Why look! (_point­ing to the au­di­ence_) I see them now. What’s the next step?

XAN. We’d best be mov­ing on. This is the spot where Her­acles de­clared Those sav­age mon­sters dwell.

DIO. O hang the fel­low. That’s all his bluff: he thought to scare me off, The jeal­ous dog, know­ing my plucky ways. There’s no such swag­ger­er lives as Her­acles. Why, I’d like noth­ing bet­ter than to achieve Some bold ad­ven­ture, wor­thy of our trip.

XAN. I know you would. Hal­lo! I hear a noise.

DIO. Where? what?

XAN. Be­hind us, there.

DIO. Get you be­hind.

XAN. No, it’s in front.

DIO. Get you in front di­rect­ly.

XAN. And now I see the most fe­ro­cious mon­ster.

DIO. O, what’s it like?

XAN. Like ev­ery­thing by turns. Now it’s a bull: now it’s a mule: and now The loveli­est girl.

DIO. O, where? I’ll go and meet her.

XAN. It’s ceased to be a girl: it’s a dog now.

DIO. It is Em­pusa!

XAN. Well, its face is all Ablaze with fire.

DIO. Has it a cop­per leg?

XAN. A cop­per leg, yes, one; and one of cow dung.

DIO. O, whith­er shall I flee?

XAN. O, whith­er I?

DIO. My priest, pro­tect me, and we’ll sup to­geth­er.

XAN. King Her­acles, we’re done for.

DIO. O, for­bear, Good fel­low, call me any­thing but that.

XAN. Well then, Diony­sus.

DIO. O, that’s worse again.

XAN. (_To the Spec­tre_.) Aye, go thy way. O mas­ter, here, come here.

DIO. O, what’s up now?

XAN. Take courage; all’s serene. And, like Hege­lochus, we now may say “Out of the storm there comes a new fine wether.” Em­pusa’s gone.

DIO. Swear it.

XAN. By Zeus she is.

DIO. Swear it again.

XAN. By Zeus.

DIO. Again

XAN. By Zeus. O dear, O dear, how pale I grew to see her, But he, from fright has yel­lowed me all over.

DIO. Ah me, whence fall these evils on my head? Who is the god to blame for my de­struc­tion? Air, Zeus’s cham­ber, or the Foot of Time?

(_A flute is played be­hind the scenes_.)

DIO. Hist!

XAN. What’s the mat­ter.

DIO. Didn’t you hear it?

XAN. What?

DIO. The breath of flutes.

XAN. Aye, and a whiff of torch­es Breathed o’er me too; a very mys­tic whiff.

DIO. Then crouch we down, and mark what’s go­ing on.

CHO­RUS. (_In the dis­tance_.) O Iac­chus! O Iac­chus! O Iac­chus!

XAN. I have it, mas­ter: ’tis those blessed Mys­tics, Of whom he told us, sport­ing here­abouts. They sing the Iac­chus which Di­ago­ras made.

DIO. I think so too: we had bet­ter both keep qui­et And so find out ex­act­ly what it is.

(_The call­ing forth of Iac­chus_.)

CHOR.

O Iac­chus! pow­er ex­celling, here in state­ly tem­ple dwelling, O Iac­chus! O Iac­chus! Come to tread this ver­dant lev­el, Come to dance in mys­tic rev­el, Come whilst round thy fore­head hur­tles Many a wreath of fruit­ful myr­tles, Come with wild and saucy paces Min­gling in our joy­ous dance, Pure and holy, which em­braces all the charms of all the Graces When the mys­tic choirs ad­vance.

XAN. Holy and sa­cred queen, Deme­ter’s daugh­ter, O, what a jol­ly whiff of pork breathed o’er me!

DIO. Hist! and per­chance you’ll get some tripe your­self.

_(The wel­come to Iac­chus.)_

CHOR. Come, arise, from sleep awak­ing, come the fiery torch­es shak­ing, O Iac­chus! O Iac­chus! Morn­ing Star that shinest night­ly. Lo, the mead is blaz­ing bright­ly, Age for­gets its years and sad­ness, Aged knees curvet for glad­ness, Lift thy flash­ing torch­es o’er us, Mar­shal all thy blame­less train, Lead, O lead the way be­fore us; lead the love­ly youth­ful Cho­rus To the marshy flow­ery plain.

_(The warn­ing-​off of the pro­fane.)_

All evil thoughts and pro­fane be still: far hence, far hence from our choirs de­part, Who knows not well what the Mys­tics tell, or is not holy and pure of heart; Who ne’er has the no­ble rev­el­ry learned, or danced the dance of the Mus­es high; Or shared in the Bac­chic rites which old bull-​eat­ing Crat­inus’s words sup­ply; Who vul­gar coarse buf­foon­ery loves, though all un­time­ly the jests they make; Or lives not easy and kind with all, or kin­dling fac­tion for­bears to slake, But fans the fire, from a base de­sire some piti­ful gain for him­self to reap; Or takes, in of­fice, his gifts and bribes, while the city is tossed on the stormy deep; Who fort or fleet to the foe be­trays; or, a vile Tho­rycion, ships away For­bid­den stores from Aegi­na’s shores, to Ep­idau­rus across the Bay Trans­mit­ting oarpads and sails and tar, that curst col­lec­tor of five per cents; The knave who tries to pro­cure sup­plies for the use of the en­emy’s ar­ma­ments; The Cy­clian singer who dares be­foul the La­dy Hecate’s way­side shrine; The pub­lic speak­er who once lam­pooned in our Bac­chic feast, would, with heart ma­lign, Keep nib­bling away the Co­me­di­ans’ pay;–to these I ut­ter my warn­ing cry, I charge them once, I charge them twice, I charge them thrice, that they draw not nigh To the sa­cred dance of the Mys­tic choir. But YE, my com­rades, awake the song, The night-​long rev­els of joy and mirth which ev­er of right to our feast be­long.

(_The start of the pro­ces­sion_.)

Ad­vance, true hearts, ad­vance! On to the glad­some bow­ers, On to the sward, with flow­ers Em­bo­somed bright! March on with jest, and jeer, and dance, Full well ye’ve supped to-​night.

(_The pro­ces­sion­al hymn to Perse­phone_.)

March, chant­ing loud your lays, Your hearts and voic­es rais­ing, The Saviour god­dess prais­ing Who vows she’ll still Our city save to end­less days, Whate’er Tho­rycion’s will.

Break off the mea­sure, and change the time; and now with chant­ing and hymns adorn Deme­ter, god­dess mighty and high, the har­vest-​queen, the giv­er of corn.

(_The pro­ces­sion­al hymn to Deme­ter_.)

O La­dy, over our rites pre­sid­ing, Pre­serve and suc­cour thy choral throng, And grant us all, in thy help con­fid­ing, To dance and rev­el the whole day long; AND MUCH in earnest, and much in jest, Wor­thy thy feast, may we speak there­in. And when we have ban­tered and laughed our best, The vic­tor’s wreath be it ours to win.

Call we now the youth­ful god, call him hith­er with­out de­lay, Him who trav­els amongst his cho­rus, danc­ing along on the Sa­cred Way.

(_The pro­ces­sion­al hymn to Iac­chus_.)

O, come with the joy of thy fes­ti­val song, O, come to the god­dess, O, mix with our throng Un­tired, though the jour­ney be nev­er so long. O Lord of the frol­ic and dance, Iac­chus, be­side me ad­vance! For fun, and for cheap­ness, our dress thou hast rent, Through thee we may dance to the top of our bent, Re­vil­ing, and jeer­ing, and none will re­sent. O Lord of the frol­ic and dance, Iac­chus, be­side me ad­vance! A sweet pret­ty girl I ob­served in the show, Her robe had been torn in the scuf­fle, and lo, There peeped through the tat­ters a bo­som of snow. O Lord of the frol­ic and dance, Iac­chus, be­side me ad­vance!

DIO. Wouldn’t I like to fol­low on, and try A lit­tle sport and danc­ing?

XAN. Wouldn’t I?

(_The ban­ter at the bridge of Cephis­us_.)

CHOR. Shall we all a mer­ry joke At Archede­mus poke, Who has not cut his guilds­men yet, though sev­en years old; Yet up among the dead He is dem­agogue and head, And con­trives the top­most place of the ras­cal­dom to hold? And Cleis­thenes, they say, Is among the tombs all day, Be­wail­ing for his lover with a lamentable whine. And Cal­lias, I’m told, Has be­come a sailor bold, And casts a li­on’s hide o’er his mem­bers fem­inine.

DIO. Can any of you tell Where Plu­to here may dwell, For we, sirs, are two strangers who were nev­er here be­fore?

CHOR. O, then no fur­ther stray, Nor again en­quire the way, For know that ye have jour­neyed to his very en­trance-​door

DIO. Take up the wraps, my lad.

XAN. Now is not this too bad? Like “Zeus’s Corinth,” he “the wraps” keeps say­ing o’er and o’er.

CHOR. Now wheel your sa­cred dances through the glade with flow­ers be­dight, All ye who are par­tak­ers of the holy fes­tal rite; And I will with the wom­en and the holy maid­ens go Where they keep the night­ly vig­il, an aus­pi­cious light to show.

(_The de­par­ture for the Thri­asian Plain_)

Now haste we to the ros­es, And the mead­ows full of posies, Now haste we to the mead­ows In our own old way, In choral dances blend­ing, In dances nev­er end­ing, Which on­ly for the holy The Des­tinies ar­ray. O hap­py mys­tic cho­rus, The blessed sun­shine o’er us On us alone is smil­ing, In its soft sweet light: On us who strove for ev­er With holy, pure en­deav­our, Alike by friend and stranger To guide our steps aright.

DIO. What’s the right way to knock? I won­der how The na­tives here are wont to knock at doors.

XAN. No dawdling: taste the door. You’ve got, re­mem­ber, The li­on-​hide and pride of Her­acles.

DIO. Boy! boy!

AEA­CUS. Who’s there?

DIO. I, Her­acles the strong!

AEAC. O, you most shame­less des­per­ate ruf­fi­an, you! O, vil­lain, vil­lain, ar­rant vilest vil­lain! Who seized our Cer­berus by the throat, and fled, And ran, and rushed, and bolt­ed, hal­ing off The dog, my charge! But now I’ve got thee fast. So close the Styx’s inky-​heart­ed rock, The blood-​be­dab­bled peak of Acheron Shall hem thee in: the hell-​hounds of Co­cy­tus Prowl round thee; whilst the hun­dred-​head­ed Asp Shall rive thy heart-​strings: the Tarte­sian Lam­prey, Prey on thy lungs: and those Tithrasian Gor­gons Man­gle and tear thy kid­neys, maul­ing them, En­trails and all, in­to one bloody mash. I’ll speed a run­ning foot to fetch them hith­er.

XAN. Hal­lo! what now?

DIO. I’ve done it: call the god.

XAN. Get up, you laugh­ing-​stock; get up di­rect­ly, Be­fore you’re seen.

DIO. What, _I_ get up? I’m faint­ing. Please dab a sponge of wa­ter on my heart.

XAN. Here!

DIO. Dab it, you.

XAN. Where? O, ye gold­en gods, Lies your heart THERE?

DIO. It got so ter­ri­fied It flut­tered down in­to my stom­ach’s pit.

XAN. Cow­ardli­est of gods and men!

DIO. The cow­ardli­est? I? What I, who asked you for a sponge, a thing A cow­ard nev­er would have done!

XAN. What then?

DIO. A cow­ard would have lain there wal­low­ing; But I stood up, and wiped my­self with­al.

XAN. Po­sei­don! quite hero­ic.

DIO. ‘Deed I think so. But weren’t _you_ fright­ened at those dread­ful threats And shout­ings?

XAN, Fright­ened? Not a bit. I cared not.

DIO. Come then, if you’re so _very_ brave a man, Will you be I, and take the hero’s club And li­on’s skin, since you’re so mon­strous plucky? And I’ll be now the slave, and bear the lug­gage.

XAN. Hand them across. I can­not choose but take them. And now ob­serve the Xan­thio-​her­acles If I’m a cow­ard and a sneak like you.

DIO. Nay, you’re the rogue from Melite’s own self. And I’ll pick up and car­ry on the traps.

MAID. O wel­come, Her­acles! come in, sweet­heart. My La­dy, when they told her, set to work, Baked mighty loaves, boiled two or three tureens Of lentil soup, roast­ed a prime ox whole, Made rolls and hon­ey-​cakes. So come along.

XAN. (De­clin­ing.) You are too kind.

MAID. I will not let you go. I will not LET you! Why, she’s stew­ing slices Of juicy bird’s-​flesh, and she’s mak­ing com­fits, And tem­per­ing down her rich­est wine. Come, dear, Come along in.

XAN. (Still de­clin­ing.) Pray thank her.

MAID. O you’re jest­ing, I shall not let you off: there’s such a love­ly Flute-​girl all ready, and we’ve two or three Danc­ing-​girls al­so.

XAN. Eh! what! Danc­ing-​girls?

MAID. Young bud­ding vir­gins, fresh­ly tired and trimmed. Come, dear, come in. The cook was dish­ing up The cut­lets, and they are bring­ing in the ta­bles.

XAN. Then go you in, and tell those danc­ing-​girls Of whom you spake, I’m com­ing in My­self. Pick up the traps, my lad, and fol­low me.

DIO. Hi! stop! you’re not in earnest, just be­cause I dressed you up, in fun, as Her­acles? Come, don’t keep fool­ing, Xan­thias, but lift And car­ry in the traps your­self.

XAN. Why! what! You are nev­er go­ing to strip me of these togs You gave me!

DIO. Go­ing to? No, I’m do­ing it now. Off with that li­on-​skin.

XAN. Bear wit­ness all The gods shall judge be­tween us.

DIO. Gods in­deed! Why how could _you_ (the vain and fool­ish thought!) A slave, a mor­tal, act Al­cme­na’s son?

XAN. All right then, take them; maybe, if God will, You’ll soon re­quire my ser­vices again.

CHOR. This is the part of a dex­ter­ous clever Man with his wits about him ev­er, One who has trav­elled the world to see; Al­ways to shift, and to keep through all Close to the sun­ny side of the wall; Not like a pic­tured block to be, Stand­ing al­ways in one po­si­tion; Nay but to veer, with ex­pe­di­tion, And ev­er to catch the favour­ing breeze, This is the part of a shrewd tac­ti­cian, This is to be a–THER­AMENES! DIO. Tru­ly an exquisite joke ‘twould be, Him with a danc­ing girl to see, Lolling at ease on Mile­sian rugs; Me, like a slave, be­side him stand­ing, Aught that he wants to his lord­ship hand­ing; Then as the damsel fair he hugs, See­ing me all on fire to em­brace her, He would per­chance (for there’s no man baser), Turn­ing him round like a lazy lout, Straight on my mouth de­liv­er a fac­er, Knock­ing my ivory choir­men out.

HOST­ESS. O Plathane! Plathane! Here’s that naughty man, That’s he who got in­to our tav­ern once, And ate up six­teen loaves.

PLATHANE. O, so he is! The very man.

XAN. Bad luck for some­body!

HOS. O and, be­sides, those twen­ty bits of stew, Half-​obol pieces.

XAN. Some­body’s go­ing to catch it!

HOS. That gar­lic too.

DIO. Wom­an, you’re talk­ing non­sense. You don’t know what you’re say­ing.

HOS. O, you thought I shouldn’t know you with your buskins on! Ah, and I’ve not yet men­tioned all that fish, No, nor the new-​made cheese: he gulped it down, Bas­kets and all, un­lucky that we were. And when I just al­lud­ed to the price, He looked so fierce, and bel­lowed like a bull.

XAN. Yes, that’s his way: that’s what he al­ways does.

HOS. O, and he drew his sword, and seemed quite mad.

PLA. O, that he did.

HOS. And ter­ri­fied us so We sprang up to the cockloft, she and I. Then out he hurled, de­camp­ing with the rugs.

XAN. That’s his way too; but some­thing must be done.

HOS. Quick, run and call my pa­tron Cleon here!

PLA. O, if you meet him, call Hy­per­bo­lus! We’ll pay you out to-​day.

HOS. O filthy throat, O how I’d like to take a stone, and hack Those grinders out with which you chawed my wares.

PLA. I’d like to pitch you in the dead­man’s pit.

HOS. I’d like to get a reap­ing-​hook and scoop That gul­let out with which you gorged my tripe. But I’ll to Cleon: he’ll soon serve his writs; He’ll twist it out of you to-​day, he will.

DRO. Perdi­tion seize me, if I don’t love Xan­thias.

XAN. Aye, aye, I know your drift: stop, stop that talk­ing. I won’t be Her­acles.

DRO. O, don’t say so, Dear, dar­ling Xan­thias.

XAN. Why, how can I, A slave, a mor­tal, act Al­cme­na’s son!

DRO. Aye, aye, I know you are vexed, and I de­serve it, And if you pum­mel me, I won’t com­plain. But if I strip you of these togs again, Perdi­tion seize my­self, my wife, my chil­dren, And, most of all, that blear-​eyed Archede­mus.

XAN. That oath con­tents me: on those terms I take them.

CHOR. Now that at last you ap­pear once more, Wear­ing the garb that at first you wore, Wield­ing the club and the tawny skin, Now it is yours to be up and do­ing, Glar­ing like mad, and your youth re­new­ing, Mind­ful of him whose guise you are in. If, when caught in a bit of a scrape, you Suf­fer a word of alarm to es­cape you, Show­ing your­self but a feck­less knave, Then will your mas­ter at once un­drape you, Then you’ll again be the toil­ing slave.

XAN. There, I ad­mit, you have giv­en to me a Cap­ital hint, and the like idea, Friends, had oc­curred to my­self be­fore. Tru­ly if any­thing good be­fell He would be want­ing, I know full well, Want­ing to take to the togs once more. Nev­er­the­less, while in these I’m vest­ed, Ne’er shall you find me craven-​crest­ed, No, for a dit­tany look I’ll wear, Aye and me­thinks it will soon be test­ed, Hark! how the por­tals are rustling there.

AEAC. Seize the dog-​steal­er, bind him, pin­ion him, Drag him to jus­tice!

DIO. Some­body’s go­ing to catch it.

XAN. (_Strik­ing out_.) Hands off! get away! stand back!

ABAC. Eh? You’re for fight­ing. Ho! Dity­las, Sce­blyas, and Par­do­cas, Come hith­er, quick; fight me this stur­dy knave.

DIO. Now isn’t it a shame the man should strike And he a thief be­sides?

AEAC. A mon­strous shame!

DIO. A reg­ular burn­ing shame!

XAN. By the Lord Zeus, If ev­er I was here be­fore, if ev­er I stole one hair’s-​worth from you, let me die! And now I’ll make you a right no­ble of­fer, Ar­rest my lad: tor­ture him as you will, And if you find I’m guilty, take and kill me.

AEAC. Tor­ture him, how?

XAN. In any mode you please. Pile bricks up­on him: stuff his nose with acid: Flay, rack him, hoist him; flog him with a scourge Of prick­ly bris­tles: on­ly not with this, A soft-​leaved onion, or a ten­der leek.

AEAC. A fair pro­pos­al. If I strike too hard And maim the boy, I’ll make you com­pen­sa­tion.

XAN. I shan’t re­quire it. Take him out and flog him.

ABAC. Nay, but I’ll do it here be­fore your eyes. Now then, put down the traps, and mind you speak The truth, young fel­low.

DIO. (_In agony_.) Man! don’t tor­ture ME! I am a god. You’ll blame your­self here­after If you touch ME.

AEAC. Hil­lo! What’s that you are say­ing?

DIO. I say I’m Bac­chus, son of Zeus, a god, Anid _he’s_ the slave.

AEAC. You hear him?

XAN. Hear him? Yes. All the more rea­son you should flog him well. For if he is a god, he won’t per­ceive it.

DIO. Well, but you say that you’re a god your­self. So why not _you_ be flogged as well as I?

XAN. A fair pro­pos­al. And be this the test, Whichev­er of us two you first be­hold Flinch­ing or cry­ing out–he’s not the god.

AEAC. Up­on my word you’re quite the gen­tle­man, You’re all for right and jus­tice. Strip then, both.

XAN. How can you test us fair­ly?

AEAC. Eas­ily, I’ll give you blow for blow.

XAN. A good idea. We’re ready! Now! (_Aea­cus strikes him_), see if you catch me flinch­ing.

AEAC. I struck you.

XAN. (_In­cred­ulous­ly_.) No!

ABAC Well, it seems “no,” in­deed. Now then I’ll strike the oth­er (_Strikes DIO_.).

DIO. Tell me when?

AEAC. I struck you.

DIO. Struck me? Then why didn’t I sneeze?

AEAC. Don’t know, I’m sure. I’ll try the oth­er again.

XAN. And quick­ly too. Good gra­cious!

AEAC. Why “good gra­cious”? Not hurt you, did I?

XAN. No, I mere­ly thought of The Diomeian feast of Her­acles.

AEAC. A holy man! ‘Tis now the oth­er’s turn.

DIO. Hi! Hi!

AEAC. Hal­lo!

DIO. Look at those horse­men, look!

AEAC. But why these tears?

DIO. There’s such a smell of onions.

AEAC. Then you don’t mind it?

DIO. (_Cheer­ful­ly_.) Mind it? Not a bit.

AEAC. Well, I must go to the oth­er one again.

XAN. O! O!

AEAC. Hal­lo!

XAN. Do pray pull out this thorn.

AEAC. What does it mean? ‘Tis this one’s turn again.

DIO. (_Shriek­ing_.) Apol­lo! Lord! (_Calm­ly_) of De­los and of Pytho.

XAN. He flinched! You heard him?

DIO. Not at all; a jol­ly Verse of Hip­pon­ax flashed across my mind.

XAN. You don’t half do it: cut his flanks to pieces.

AEAC. By Zeus, well thought on. Turn your bel­ly here.

DIO. (_Scream­ing_.) Po­sei­don!

XAN. There! he’s flinch­ing.

DIO. (Singing) who dost reign Amongst the Aegean peaks and creeks And o’er the deep blue main.

AEAC. No, by Deme­ter, still I can’t find out Which is the god, but come ye both in­doors; My lord him­self and Persephas­sa there, Be­ing gods them­selves, will soon find out the truth.

DIO. Right! right! I on­ly wish you had thought of that Be­fore you gave me those tremen­dous whacks.

CHOR. Come, Muse, to our Mys­ti­cal Cho­rus, O come to the joy of my song, O see on the bench­es be­fore us that count­less and won­der­ful throng, Where wits by the thou­sand abide, with more than a Cleophon’s pride– On the lips of that for­eign­er base, of Athens the bane and dis­grace, There is shriek­ing, his kins­man by race, The gar­ru­lous swal­low of Thrace; From that perch of ex­ot­ic de­scent, Re­joic­ing her sor­row to vent, She pours to her spir­it’s con­tent, a nightin­gale’s woe­ful lament, That e’en though the vot­ing be equal, his ru­in will soon be the se­quel.

Well it suits the holy Cho­rus ev­er­more with coun­sel wise To ex­hort and teach the city: this we there­fore now ad­vise– End the towns­men’s ap­pre­hen­sions; equal­ize the rights of all; If by Phryn­ichus’s wrestlings some per­chance sus­tained a fall, Yet to these ’tis sure­ly open, hav­ing put away their sin, For their slips and vac­il­la­tions par­don at your hands to win. Give your brethren back their fran­chise. Sin and shame it were that slaves, Who have once with stern de­vo­tion fought your bat­tle on the waves, Should be straight­way lords and mas­ters, yea Plataeans ful­ly blown– Not that this de­serves our cen­sure; there I praise you; there alone Has the city, in her an­guish, pol­icy and wis­dom shown– Nay but these, of old ac­cus­tomed on our ships to fight and win, (They, their fa­ther too be­fore them), these our very kith and kin, You should like­wise, when they ask you, par­don for their sin­gle sin. O by na­ture best and wis­est, O re­lax your jeal­ous ire, Let us all the world as kins­folk and as cit­izens ac­quire, All who on our ships will bat­tle well and brave­ly by our side If we cock­er up our city, nar­row­ing her with sense­less pride Now when she is rocked and reel­ing in the cra­dles of the sea, Here again will af­ter ages deem we act­ed brain­less­ly.

And O if I’m able to scan the habits and life of a man Who shall rue his in­iq­ui­ties soon! not long shall that lit­tle ba­boon, That Cleigenes shifty and small, the wickedest bath­man of all Who are lords of the earth–which is brought from the isle of Cimo­lus, and wrought With ni­tre and lye in­to soap– Not long shall he vex us, I hope. And this the un­lucky one knows, Yet ven­tures a peace to op­pose, And be­ing ad­dict­ed to blows he car­ries a stick as he goes, Lest while he is tip­sy and reel­ing, some rob­ber his cloak should be steal­ing.

Of­ten has it crossed my fan­cy, that the city loves to deal With the very best and no­blest mem­bers of her com­mon­weal, Just as with our an­cient coinage, and the new­ly-​mint­ed gold. Yea for these, our ster­ling pieces, all of pure Athe­ni­an mould, All of per­fect die and met­al, all the fairest of the fair, All of work­man­ship un­equalled, proved and val­ued ev­ery-​where

Both amongst our own Hel­lenes and Bar­bar­ians far away, These we use not: but the worth­less pinch­beck coins of yes­ter­day, Vilest die and basest met­al, now we al­ways use in­stead. Even so, our ster­ling towns­men, nobly born and nobly bred, Men of worth and rank and met­al, men of hon­ourable fame, Trained in ev­ery lib­er­al sci­ence, choral dance and man­ly game, These we treat with scorn and in­sult, but the strangers newli­est come, Worth­less sons of worth­less fa­thers, pinch­beck towns­men, yel­lowy scum, Whom in ear­li­er days the city hard­ly would have stooped to use Even for her scape­goat vic­tims, these for ev­ery task we choose. O un­wise and fool­ish peo­ple, yet to mend your ways be­gin; Use again the good and use­ful: so here­after, if ye win ‘Twill be due to this your wis­dom: if ye fall, at least ’twill be Not a fall that brings dis­hon­our, falling from a wor­thy tree.

AEAC. By Zeus the Saviour, quite the gen­tle­man Your mas­ter is.

XAN. Gen­tle­man? I be­lieve you. He’s all for wine and wom­en, is my mas­ter.

AEAC. But not to have flogged you, when the truth came out That you, the slave, were pass­ing off as mas­ter!

XAN. He’d get the worst of that.

AEAC. Bra­vo! that’s spo­ken Like a true slave: that’s what I love my­self.

XAN. You love it, do you?

AEAC. Love it? I’m en­tranced When I can curse my lord be­hind his back.

XAN. How about grum­bling, when you have felt the stick, And scur­ry out of doors?

AEAC. That’s jol­ly too.

XAN. How about pry­ing?

AEAC. That beats ev­ery­thing!

XAN. Great Kin-​god Zeus! And what of over­hear­ing Your mas­ter’s se­crets?

AEAC. What? I’m mad with joy.

XAN. And blab­bing them abroad?

AEAC. O heav­en and earth! When I do that, I can’t con­tain my­self.

XAN. Phoe­bus Apol­lo! clap your hand in mine, Kiss and be kissed: and prithee tell me this, Tell me by Zeus, our ras­cal­dom’s own god, What’s all that noise with­in? What means this hub­bub And row?

AEAC. That’s Aeschy­lus and Eu­ripi­des.

XAN. Eh?

AEAC. Won­der­ful, won­der­ful things are go­ing on. The dead are ri­ot­ing, tak­ing dif­fer­ent sides.

XAN. Why, what’s the mat­ter?

AEAC. There’s a cus­tom here With all the crafts, the good and no­ble crafts, That the chief mas­ter of his art in each Shall have his din­ner in the as­sem­bly hall, And sit by Plu­to’s side.

XAN. I un­der­stand.

AEAC. Un­til an­oth­er comes, more wise than he In the same art: then must the first give way.

XAN. And how has this dis­turbed our Aeschy­lus?

AEAC. ‘Twas he that oc­cu­pied the trag­ic chair, As, in his craft, the no­blest.

XAN. Who does now?

AEAC. But when Eu­ripi­des came down, he kept Flour­ish­ing off be­fore the high­way­men, Thieves, bur­glars, par­ri­cides–these form our mob In Hades–till with lis­ten­ing to his twists And turns, and pleas and coun­ter­pleas, they went Mad on the man, and hailed him first and wis­est: Elate with this, he claimed the trag­ic chair Where Aeschy­lus was seat­ed.

XAN. Wasn’t he pelt­ed?

AEAC. Not he: the pop­ulace clam­oured out to try Which of the twain was wis­er in his art.

XAN. You mean the ras­cals?

AEAC. Aye, as high as heav­en!

XAN. But were there none to side with Aeschy­lus?

AEAC. Scanty and sparse the good, (_Re­gards the au­di­ence_) the same as here.

XAN. And what does Plu­to now pro­pose to do?

AEAC. He means to hold a tour­na­ment, and bring Their tragedies to the proof.

XAN. But Sopho­cles, How came not he to claim the trag­ic chair?

AEAC. Claim it? Not he! When _he_ came down, he kissed With rev­er­ence Aeschy­lus, and clasped his hand, And yield­ed will­ing­ly the chair to him. But now he’s go­ing, says Clei­demides, To sit third-​man: and then if Aeschy­lus win, He’ll stay con­tent: if not, for his art’s sake, He’ll fight to the death against Eu­ripi­des.

XAN. Will it come off?

AEAC. O yes, by Zeus, di­rect­ly. And then, I hear, will won­der­ful things be done, The art po­et­ic will be weighed in scales.

XAN. What! weigh out tragedy, like butch­er’s meat?

AEAC. Lev­els they’ll bring, and mea­sur­ing-​tapes for words, And mould­ed ob­longs.

XAN. Is it bricks they are mak­ing?

AEAC. Wedges and com­pass­es: for Eu­ripi­des Vows that he’ll test the dra­mas, word by word.

XAN. Aeschy­lus chafes at this, I fan­cy.

AEAC. Well, He low­ered his brows, up­glar­ing like a bull.

XAN. And who’s to be the judge?

AEAC. There came the rub. Skilled men were hard to find: for with the Athe­ni­ans Aeschy­lus, some­how, did not hit it off.

XAN. Too many bur­glars, I ex­pect, he thought.

AEAC. And all the rest, he said, were trash and non­sense To judge po­et­ic wits. So then at last They chose your lord, an ex­pert in the art. But go we in: for when our lords are bent On ur­gent busi­ness, that means blows for us.

CHOR. O sure­ly with ter­ri­ble wrath will the thun­der-​voiced monarch be filled, When he sees his op­po­nent be­side him, the tonguester, the ar­ti­fice-​skilled, Stand, whet­ting his tusks for the fight! O sure­ly, his eyes rolling-​fell Will with ter­ri­ble mad­ness be fraught! O then will be charg­ing of plume-​wav­ing words with their wild-​float­ing mane, And then will be whirling of splin­ters, and phras­es smoothed down with the plane, When the man would the grand-​step­ping max­ims, the lan­guage gi­gan­tic, re­pel Of the hero-​cre­ator of thought. There will his shag­gy-​born crest up­bris­tle for anger and woe, Hor­ri­bly frown­ing and growl­ing, his fury will launch at the foe Huge-​clamped mass­es of words, with ex­er­tion Ti­tan­ic up–tear­ing Great ship-​tim­ber planks for the fray. But here will the tongue be at work, un­coil­ing, word-​test­ing re­fin­ing, Sophist-​cre­ator of phras­es, dis­sect­ing, de­tract­ing, ma­lign­ing, Shak­ing the en­vi­ous bits, and with sub­tle anal­ysis par­ing The lung’s large labour away.

EU­RIPI­DES. Don’t talk to me; I won’t give up the chair, I say I am bet­ter in the art than he.

DIO. You hear him, Aeschy­lus: why don’t you speak?

EUR. He’ll do the grand at first, the jug­gling trick He used to play in all his tragedies.

DIO. Come, my fine fel­low, pray don’t talk too big.

EUR. I know the man, I’ve scanned him through and through, A sav­age-​cre­at­ing stub­born-​pulling fel­low, Un­curbed, un­fet­tered, un­con­trolled of speech, Un­pe­riphrastic, bom­bastil­oquent.

AESCHY­LUS. Hah! sayest thou so, child of the gar­den quean! And this to ME, thou chat­tery-​bab­ble-​col­lec­tor, Thou pau­per-​cre­at­ing rags-​and-​patch­es-​stitch­er? Thou shalt abye it dear­ly!

DIO. Pray, be still; Nor heat thy soul to fury, Aeschy­lus.

AESCH. Not till I’ve made you see the sort of man This crip­ple-​mak­er is who crows so loud­ly.

DIO. Bring out a ewe, a black-​fleeced ewe, my boys: Here’s a ty­phoon about to burst up­on us.

AESCH. Thou pick­er-​up of Cre­tan monodies, Foist­ing thy tales of in­cest on the stage–

DIO. For­bear, for­bear, most hon­oured Aeschy­lus; And you, my poor Eu­ripi­des, be­gone If you are wise, out of this piti­less hail, Lest with some heady word he crack your scull And bat­ter out your brain-​less Tele­phus. And not with pas­sion. Aeschy­lus, but calm­ly Test and be test­ed. ‘Tis not meet for po­ets To scold each oth­er, like two bak­ing-​girls. But you go roar­ing like an oak on fire.

EUR. I’m ready, I! I don’t draw back one bit. I’ll lash or, if he will, let him lash first The talk, the lays, the sinews of a play: Aye and my Peleus, aye and Ae­olus, And Me­lea­ger, aye and Tele­phus.

DIO. And what do _you_ pro­pose? Speak, Aeschy­lus.

AESCH. I could have wished to meet him oth­er­where. We fight not here on equal terms.

DIO. Why not?

AESCH. My po­et­ry sur­vived me: his died with him: He’s got it here, all handy to re­cite. How­beit, if so you wish it, so we’ll have it.

DIO. O bring me fire, and bring me frank­in­cense. I’ll pray, or e’er the clash of wits be­gin, To judge the strife with high po­et­ic skill. Mean­while (_to the Cho­rus_) in­voke the Mus­es with a song.

CHOR. O Mus­es, the daugh­ters di­vine of Zeus, the im­mac­ulate Nine, Who gaze from your man­sions serene on in­tel­lects sub­tle and keen, When down to the tour­na­ment lists, in bright-​pol­ished wit they de­scend, With wrestling and turn­ings and twists in the bat­tle of words to con­tend, O come and be­hold what the two an­tag­onist po­ets can do, Whose mouths are the swiftest to teach grand lan­guage and fil­ings of speech: For now of their wits is the sternest en­counter com­menc­ing in earnest.

DIO. Ye two, put up your prayers be­fore ye start.

AESCH. Deme­ter, mis­tress, nour­ish­er of my soul, O make me wor­thy of thy mys­tic rites!

DIO. (_To Eur_.) Now put on in­cense, you.

EUR. Ex­cuse me, no; My vows are paid to oth­er gods than these.

DIO. What, a new coinage of your own?

EUR. Pre­cise­ly.

DIO. Pray then to them, those pri­vate gods of yours.

EUR. Ether, my pas­ture, vol­ubly-​rolling tongue, In­tel­li­gent wit and crit­ic nos­trils keen, O well and neat­ly may I trounce his plays!

CHOR. We al­so are yearn­ing from these to be learn­ing Some state­ly mea­sure, some ma­jes­tic grand Move­ment telling of con­flicts nigh. Now for bat­tle ar­rayed they stand, Tongues em­bit­tered, and anger high. Each has got a ven­ture­some will, Each an ea­ger and nim­ble mind; One will wield, with artis­tic skill, Clearcut phras­es, and wit re­fined; Then the oth­er, with words de­fi­ant, Stern and strong, like an an­gry gi­ant Lay­ing on with up­root­ed trees, Soon will scat­ter a world of these Su­per­scholas­tic sub­tleties.

DIO. Now then, com­mence your ar­gu­ments, and mind you both dis­play True wit, not metaphors, nor things which any fool could say.

EUR. As for my­self, good peo­ple all, I’ll tell you by-​and-​by My own po­et­ic worth and claims; but first of all I’ll try To show how this por­ten­tous quack be­guiled the sil­ly fools Whose tastes were nur­tured, ere he came, in Phryn­ichus’s schools. He’d bring some sin­gle mourn­er on, seat­ed and veiled, ‘twould be Achilles, say, or Niobe–the face you could not see– An emp­ty show of trag­ic woe, who ut­tered not one thing.

DIO. Tis true.

EUR. Then in the Cho­rus came, and rat­tled off a string Of four con­tin­uous lyric odes: the mourn­er nev­er stirred.

DIO. I liked it too. I some­times think that I those mutes pre­ferred To all your chat­ter­ers now-​a-​days.

EUR. Be­cause, if you must know, You were an ass.

DIO. An ass, no doubt: what made him do it though?

EUR. That was his quack­ery, don’t you see, to set the au­di­ence guess­ing When Niobe would speak; mean­while, the dra­ma was pro­gress­ing.

DIO. The ras­cal, how he took me in! ‘Twas shame­ful, was it not? (_To Aesch_.) What makes you stamp and fid­get so?

EUR. He’s catch­ing it so hot. So when he had hum­bugged thus awhile, and now his wretched play Was halfway through, a dozen words, great wild-​bull words, he’d say, Fierce Buga­boos, with bristling crests, and shag­gy eye­brows too, Which not a soul could un­der­stand.

AESCH. O heav­ens!

DIO. Be qui­et, do.

EUR. But not one sin­gle word was clear.

DIO. St! don’t your teeth be gnash­ing.

EUR. ‘Twas all Sca­man­ders, moat­ed camps, and grif­fin-​ea­gles flash­ing In bur­nished cop­per on the shields, chival­ric-​precipice-​high Ex­pres­sions, hard to com­pre­hend.

DIO. Aye, by the Pow­ers, and I Full many a sleep­less night have spent in anx­ious thought, be­cause I’d find the tawny cock-​horse out, what sort of bird it was!

AESCH. It was a sign, you stupid dolt, en­graved the ships up­on.

DIO. Eryx­is I sup­posed it was, Philox­enus’s son.

EUR. Now re­al­ly should a cock be brought in­to a trag­ic play?

AESCH. You en­emy of gods and men, what was _your_ prac­tice, pray?

EUR. No cock-​horse in _my_ plays, by Zeus, no goat-​stag there you’ll see, Such fig­ures as are bla­zoned forth in Me­di­an tapestry. When first I took the art from you, bloat­ed and swoln, poor thing, With turgid gas­conad­ing words and heavy di­et­ing, First I re­duced and toned her down, and made her slim and neat With wordlets and with ex­er­cise and poul­tices of beet, And next a dose of chat­ter­juice, dis­tilled from books, I gave her, And monodies she took, with sharp Cephisophon for flavour. I nev­er used hap­haz­ard words, or plunged abrupt­ly in; Who en­tered first ex­plained at large the dra­ma’s ori­gin And source.

DIO. Its source, I re­al­ly trust, was bet­ter than your own.

EUR. Then from the very open­ing lines no idle­ness was shown; The mis­tress talked with all her might, the ser­vant talked as much, The mas­ter talked, the maid­en talked, the bel­dame talked.

AESCH. For such an out­rage was not death your due?

EUR. No, by Apol­lo, no: That was my demo­crat­ic way.

DIO. Ah, let that top­ic go. Your record is not there, my friend, par­tic­ular­ly good.

EUR. Then next I taught all these to speak.

AESCH. You did so, and I would That ere such mis­chief you had wrought, your very lungs had split.

EUR. Canons of verse I in­tro­duced, and neat­ly chis­elled wit; To look, to scan: to plot, to plan: to twist, to turn, to woo: On all to spy; in all to pry.

AESCH. You did: I say so too.

EUR. I showed them scenes of com­mon life, the things we know and see, Where any blun­der would at once by all de­tect­ed be. I nev­er blus­tered on, or took their breath and wits away By Cy­cnus­es or Mem­nons clad in ter­ri­ble ar­ray, With bells up­on their hors­es’ heads, the au­di­ence to dis­may. Look at _his_ pupils, look at mine: and there the con­trast view. Un­couth Megaene­tus is his, and rough Phormi­sius too; Great long-​beard-​lance-​and-​trum­pet-​men, flesh-​tear­ers with the pine: But nat­ty smart Ther­amenes, and Cleitophon are mine.

DIO. Ther­amenes? a clever man and won­der­ful­ly sly: Im­merse him in a flood of ills, he’ll soon be high and dry, “A Kian with a kap­pa, sir, not Chi­an with a chi.”

EUR. I taught them all these know­ing ways By chop­ping log­ic in my plays, And mak­ing all my speak­ers try To rea­son out the How and Why. So now the peo­ple trace the springs, The sources and the roots of things, And man­age all their house­holds too Far bet­ter than they used to do, Scan­ning and search­ing _What’s amiss?_ And, _Why was that?_ And, _How is this?_

DIO. Ay, tru­ly, nev­er now a man Comes home, but he be­gins to scan; And to his house­hold loud­ly cries, _Why, where’s my pitch­er? What’s the mat­ter? ‘Tis dead and gone my last year’s plat­ter. Who gnawed these olives? Bless the sprat, Who nib­bled off the head of that? And where’s the gar­lic van­ished, pray, I pur­chased on­ly yes­ter­day?_ –Where­as, of old, our stupid youths Would sit, with open mouths and eyes, Like any dull-​brained Mam­ma­couths.

CHOR. “All this thou be­hold­est, Achilles our bold­est.” And what wilt thou re­ply? Draw tight the rein Lest that fiery soul of thine Whirl thee out of the list­ed plain, Past the olives, and o’er the line. Dire and grievous the charge he brings. See thou an­swer him, no­ble heart, Not with pas­sion­ate bick­er­ings. Shape thy course with a sailor’s art, Reef the can­vas, short­en the sails, Shift them edge­wise to shun the gales. When the breezes are soft and low, Then, well un­der con­trol, you’ll go Quick and quick­er to strike the foe. O first of all the Hel­lenic bards high lofti­ly-​tow­er­ing verse to rear, And trag­ic phrase from the dust to raise, pour forth thy foun­tain with right good cheer.

AESCH. My wrath is hot at this vile mis­chance, and my spir­it re­volts at the thought that I Must bandy words with a fel­low like _him_: but lest he should vaunt that I can’t re­ply– Come, tell me what are the points for which a no­ble po­et our praise ob­tains.

EUR. For his ready wit, and his coun­sels sage, and be­cause the cit­izen folk he trains To be bet­ter towns­men and wor­thi­er men.

AESCH. If then you have done the very re­verse, Found no­ble-​heart­ed and vir­tu­ous men, and al­tered them, each and all, for the worse, Pray what is the need you de­serve to get?

DIO. Nay, ask not _him_. He de­serves to die.

AESCH. For just con­sid­er what style of men he re­ceived from me, great six-​foot-​high Hero­ical souls, who nev­er would blench from a towns­man’s du­ties in peace or war; Not idle loafers, or low buf­foons, or ras­cal­ly scamps such as now they are. But men who were breath­ing spears and helms, and the snow-​white plume in its crest­ed pride The greave, and the dart, and the war­rior’s heart in its sev­en-​fold cas­ing of tough bull-​hide.

DIO. He’ll stun me, I know, with his ar­moury-​work; this busi­ness is go­ing from bad to worse.

EUR. And how did you man­age to make them so grand, ex­alt­ed, and brave with your won­der­ful verse?

DIO. Come, Aeschy­lus, an­swer, and don’t stand mute in your self-​willed pride and ar­ro­gant spleen.

AESCH. A dra­ma I wrote with the War-​god filled.

DIO. Its name?

AESCH. ‘Tis the “Sev­en against Thebes” that I mean. Which who so be­held, with ea­ger­ness swelled to rush to the bat­tle­field there and then.

DIO. O that was a scan­dalous thing you did! You have made the The­bans might­ier men, More ea­ger by far for the busi­ness of war. Now, there­fore, re­ceive this punch on the head.

AESCH. Ah, _ye_ might have prac­tised the same your­selves, but ye turned to oth­er pur­suits in­stead. Then next the “Per­sians” I wrote, in praise of the no­blest deed that the world can show, And each man longed for the vic­tor’s wreath, to fight and to van­quish his coun­try’s foe.

DIO. I was pleased, I own, when I heard their moan for old Dar­ius, their great king, dead; When they smote to­geth­er their hands, like this, and _Evir alake_ the Cho­rus said.

AESCH. Aye, such are the po­et’s ap­pro­pri­ate works: and just con­sid­er how all along From the very first they have wrought you good, the no­ble bards, the mas­ters of song. First, Or­pheus taught you re­li­gious rites, and from bloody mur­der to stay your hands: Musaeus heal­ing and or­acle lore; and Hes­iod all the cul­ture of lands, The time to gath­er, the time to plough. And gat not Homer his glo­ry di­vine By singing of val­our, and hon­our, and right, and the sheen of the bat­tle-​ex­tend­ed line, The rang­ing of troops and the arm­ing of men?

DIO. O ay, but he didn’t teach _that_, I opine, To Pan­ta­cles; when he was lead­ing the show I couldn’t imag­ine what he was at, He had fas­tened his helm on the top of his head, he was try­ing to fas­ten his plume up­on that.

AESCH. But oth­ers, many and brave, he taught, of whom was Lamachus, hero true; And thence my spir­it the im­press took, and many a li­on-​heart chief I drew, Paro­clus­es, Teucers, il­lus­tri­ous names; for I fain the cit­izen-​folk would spur To stretch them­selves to _their_ mea­sure and height, when-​ev­er the trum­pet of war they hear. But Phae­dras and Stheneboeas? No! no har­lotry busi­ness de­formed my plays. And none can say that ev­er I drew a love sick wom­an in all my days.

EUR. For _you_ no lot or por­tion had got in Queen Aphrodite.

AESCH. Thank Heav­en for that. But ev­er on you and yours, my friend, the mighty god­dess might­ily sat; Your­self she cast to the ground at last.

DIO. O ay, that came un­com­mon­ly pat. You showed how cuck­olds are made, and lo, you were struck your­self by the very same fate.

EUR. But say, you cross-​grained cen­sor of mine, how _my_ Stheneboeas could harm the state.

AESCH. Full many a no­ble dame, the wife of a no­ble cit­izen, hem­lock took, And died, un­able the shame and sin of your Bellerophon­scenes to brook.

EUR. Was then, I won­der, the tale I told of Phae­dra’s pas­sion­ate love un­true?

AESCH. Not so: but tales of in­ces­tu­ous vice the sa­cred po­et should hide from view, Nor ev­er ex­hib­it and bla­zon forth on the pub­lic stage to the pub­lic ken. For boys a teach­er at school is found, but we, the po­ets, are teach­ers of men. We are BOUND things hon­est and pure to speak.

EUR. And to speak great Ly­ca­bet­tus­es, pray, And mas­sive blocks of Par­nas­sian rocks, is _that_ things hon­est and pure to say? In hu­man fash­ion we ought to speak.

AESCH. Alas, poor witling, and can’t you see That for mighty thoughts and hero­ic aims, the words them­selves must ap­pro­pri­ate be? And grander be­like on the ear should strike the speech of heroes and god­like pow­ers, Since even the robes that in­vest their limbs are state­lier, grander robes than ours. Such was _my_ plan: but when _you_ be­gan, you spoilt and de­grad­ed it all.

EUR. How so?

AESCH. Your kings in tat­ters and rags you dressed, and brought them on, a beg­gar­ly show, To move, for­sooth, our pity and ruth.

EUR. And what was the harm, I should like to know.

AESCH. No more will a wealthy cit­izen now equip for the state a gal­ley of war. He wraps his limbs in tat­ters and rags, and whines _he is poor, too poor by far_.

DIO. But un­der his rags he is wear­ing a vest, as wool­ly and soft as a man could wish. Let him gull the state, and he’s off to the mart; an ea­ger, ex­trav­agant buy­er of fish.

AESCH. More­over to prate, to ha­rangue, to de­bate, is now the am­bi­tion of all in the state. Each ex­er­cise-​ground is in con­se­quence found de­sert­ed and emp­ty: to evil re­pute Your lessons have brought our young­sters, and taught our sailors to chal­lenge, dis­cuss, and re­fute The or­ders they get from their cap­tains and yet, when _I_ was alive, I protest that the knaves Knew noth­ing at all, save for ra­tions’ to call, and to sing “Rhyp­pa­pae” as they pulled through the waves.

DIO. And be­dad to let fly from their sterns in the eye of the fel­low who tugged at the un­der­most oar, And a jol­ly young mess­mate with filth to be­smirch, and to land for a filch­ing ad­ven­ture ashore; But now they ha­rangue, and dis­pute, and won’t row, And idly and aim­less­ly float to and fro.

AESCH. Of what ills is he NOT the cre­ator and cause? Con­sid­er the scan­dalous scenes that he draws, His bawds, and his pan­ders, his wom­en who give Give birth in the sa­cre­dest shrine, Whilst oth­ers with broth­ers are wed­ded and bed­ded, And oth­ers opine That “not to be liv­ing” is tru­ly “to live.” And there­fore our city is swarm­ing to-​day With clerks and with dem­agogue-​mon­keys, who play Their jack­anape tricks at all times, in all places, De­lud­ing the peo­ple of Athens; but none Has train­ing enough in ath­let­ics to run With the torch in his hand at the races.

DIO. By the Pow­ers, you are right! At the Pana­thenaea I laughed till I felt like a pot­sherd to see a Pale, paunchy young gen­tle­man pound­ing along, With his head butting for­ward, the last of the throng, In the direst of straits; and be­hold at the gates, The Ce­ramites flapped him, and smacked him, and slapped him, In the ribs, and the loin, and the flank, and the groin, And still, as they spanked him, he puffed and he pant­ed, Till at one mighty cuff, he dis­charged such a puff That he blew out his torch and lev­ant­ed.

CHOR. Dread the bat­tle, and stout the com­bat, mighty and man­ifold looms the war. Hard to de­cide in the fight they’re wag­ing, One like a stormy tem­pest rag­ing, One alert in the ral­ly and skir­mish, clever to par­ry and foin and spar. Nay but don’t be con­tent to sit Al­ways in one po­si­tion on­ly: many the fields for your keen-​edged wit. On then, wran­gle in ev­ery way, Ar­gue, bat­tle, be flayed and flay, Old and new from your stores dis­play, Yea, and strive with ven­ture­some dar­ing some­thing sub­tle and neat to say.

Fear ye this, that to-​day’s spec­ta­tors lack the grace of artis­tic lore, Lack the knowl­edge they need for tak­ing All the points ye will soon be mak­ing? Fear it not: the alarm is ground­less: that, be sure, is the case no more. All have fought the cam­paign ere this: Each a book of the words is hold­ing; nev­er a sin­gle point they’ll miss. Bright their na­tures, and now, I ween, New­ly whet­ted, and sharp, and keen. Dread not any de­fect of wit, Bat­tle away with­out mis­giv­ing, sure that the au­di­ence, at least, are fit.

EUR. Well then I’ll turn me to your pro­logues now, Be­gin­ning first to test the first be­gin­ning Of this fine po­et’s plays. Why he’s ob­scure Even in the enun­ci­ation of the facts.

DIO. Which of them will you test?

EUR. Many: but first give as that fa­mous one from the Oresteia.

DIO. St! Si­lence all! Now, Aeschy­lus, be­gin.

AESCH. _Grave Her­mes, wit­ness­ing a fa­ther’s pow­er. Be thou my saviour and mine aid to-​day, For here I come and hith­er I re­turn._

DIO. Any fault there?

EUR. A dozen faults and more.

DIO. Eh! why the lines are on­ly three in all.

EUR. But ev­ery one con­tains a score of faults.

DIO. Now Aeschy­lus, keep silent; if you don’t You won’t get off with three iambic lines.

AESCH. Silent for _him_!

DIO. If _my_ ad­vice you’ll take.

EUR. Why, at first start­ing here’s a fault sky high.

AESCH. (_To Dio_.) You see your fol­ly.

DIO. Have your way; I care not.

AESCH. (_To Eur_.) What is my fault?

EUR. Be­gin the lines again.

AESCH. _Grave Her­mes, wit­ness­ing a fa­ther’s pow­er_–

EUR. And this be­side his mur­dered fa­ther’s grave Orestes speaks?

AESCH. I say not oth­er­wise.

EUR. Then does he mean that when his fa­ther fell By craft and vi­olence at a wom­an’s hand, The god of craft was wit­ness­ing the deed?

AESCH. It was not he: it was the Helper Her­mes He called the grave: and this he showed by adding It was his sire’s pre­rog­ative he held.

EUR. Why this is worse than all. If from his fa­ther He held this of­fice grave, why then–

DIO. He was A grave­yard ri­fler on his fa­ther’s side.

AESCH. Bac­chus, the wine you drink is stale and fusty.

DIO. Give him an­oth­er: (_to Eur_.) you, look out for faults.

AESCH. _Be thou my saviour and mine aid to-​day, For here I come, and hith­er I re­turn_.

EUR. The same thing twice says clever Aeschy­lus.

DIO. How twice?

EUR. Why, just con­sid­er: I’ll ex­plain. “I come,” says he; and “I re­turn,” says he: It’s the same thing, to “come” and to “re­turn.”

DIO. Aye, just as if you said, “Good fel­low, lend me A knead­ing trough: like­wise, a trough to knead in.”

AESCH. It is not so, you ev­er­last­ing talk­er, They’re not the same, the words are right enough.

DIO. How so? in­form me how you use the words.

AESCH. A man, not ban­ished from his home, may “come” To any land, with no es­pe­cial chance. A home-​bound ex­ile both “re­turns” and “comes.”

DIO. O good, by Apol­lo! What do you say, Eu­ripi­des, to that?

EUR. I say Orestes nev­er did “re­turn.” He came in se­cret: no­body re­called him.

DIO. O good, by Her­mes! (_Aside_.) I’ve not the least sus­pi­cion what he means.

EUR. Re­peat an­oth­er line.

DIO. Ay, Aeschy­lus, Re­peat one in­stant­ly: _you_, mark what’s wrong.

AESCH. _Now on this fu­ner­al mound I call my fa­ther To hear, to hear­ken._

EUR. There he is again. To “hear,” to “hear­ken”; the same thing, ex­act­ly.

DIO. Aye, but he’s speak­ing to the dead, you knave, Who can­not hear us though we call them thrice.

AESCH. And how do you make _your_ pro­logues?

EUR. You shall hear; And if you find one sin­gle thing said twice, Or any use­less padding, spit up­on me.

DIO. Well, fire away: I’m all agog to hear Your very ac­cu­rate and fault­less pro­logues.

EUR. _A hap­py man was Oedi­pus at first_–

AESCH. Not so, by Zeus; a most un­hap­py man. Who, not yet born nor yet con­ceived, Apol­lo Fore­told would be his fa­ther’s mur­der­er. How could he be a hap­py man at first.

EUR. _Then he be­came the wretchedest of men._

AESCH. Not so, by Zeus; he nev­er ceased to be. No soon­er born, than they ex­posed the babe (And that in win­ter), in an earth­en crock, lest he should grow a man, and slay his fa­ther. Then with both an­kles pierced and swoln, he limped away to Poly­bus: still young, he mar­ried an an­cient crone, and her his moth­er too. Then scratched out both his eyes.

DIO. Hap­py in­deed had he been Erasinides’s col­league!

EUR. Non­sense; I say my pro­logues are first rate.

AESCH. Nay then, by Zeus, no longer line by line I’ll maul your phras­es: but with heav­en to aid I’ll smash your pro­logues with a bot­tle of oil.

EUR. You mine with a bot­tle of oil?

AESCH. With on­ly one. You frame your pro­logues so that each and all Fit in with a “bot­tle of oil,” or “cov­er­let-​skin,” Or “retic­ule-​bag.” I’ll prove it here, and now.

EUR. You’ll prove it? You?

AESCH. I will.

DIO. Well then, be­gin.

EUR. _’Ae­gyp­tus, sail­ing with his fifty sons, As an­cient leg­ends most­ly tell the tale, Touch­ing at Ar­gos_,

AESCH. Lost his bot­tle of oil.

EUR. Hang it, what’s that? Con­found that bot­tle of oil!

DIO. Give him an­oth­er: let him try again.

EUR. _Bac­chus, who, clad in fawn­skins, leaps and bounds With torch and thyr­sus in the choral dance Along Par­nas­sus_.

AESCH. Lost his bot­tle of oil.

DIO. Ah me, we are strick­en–with that bot­tle again!

EUR. Pooh, pooh, that’s noth­ing. I’ve a pro­logue here, He’ll nev­er tack his bot­tle of oil to this: _No man is blest in ev­ery sin­gle thing. One is of no­ble birth, but lack­ing means. An­oth­er, base­born_,

AESCH. Lost his bot­tle of oil.

DIO. Eu­ripi­des!

EUR. Well?

DIO. Low­er your sails, my boy; This bot­tle of oil is go­ing to blow a gale.

EUR. O, by Deme­ter, I don’t care one bit; Now from his hands I’ll strike that bot­tle of oil.

DIO. Go on then, go; but ware the bot­tle of oil.

EUR. _Once Cad­mus, quit­ting the Sido­nian town, Agenor’s off­spring_

AESCH. Lost his bot­tle of oil.

DIO. O pray, my man, buy off that bot­tle of oil, Or else he’ll smash our pro­logues all to bits.

EUR. I buy of _him_?

DIO. If my ad­vice you’ll take.

EUR. No, no, I’ve many a pro­logue yet to say, To which he can’t tack on his bot­tle of oil. _Pelops, the son of Tan­ta­lus, while driv­ing His mares to Pisa_

AESCH. Lost his bot­tle of oil.

DIO. There! he tacked on the bot­tle of oil again. O for heav­en’s sake, pay him its price, dear boy; You’ll get it for an obol, spick and span.

EUR. Not yet, by Zeus; I’ve plen­ty of pro­logues left. _Oeneus once reap­ing_

AESCH. Lost his bot­tle of oil.

EUR. Pray let me fin­ish one en­tire line first. _Oeneus once reap­ing an abun­dant har­vest, Of­fer­ing the first­fruits_

AESCH. Lost his bot­tle of oil.

DIO. What in the act of of­fer­ing? Fie! Who stole it?

EUR. O don’t keep both­er­ing! Let him try with this! _Zeus, as by Truth’s own voice the tale is told,_

DIO. No, he’ll cut in with “Lost his bot­tle of oil!” Those bot­tles of oil on all your pro­logues seem To gath­er and grow, like styes up­on the eye. Turn to his melodies now for good­ness’ sake.

EUR. O I can eas­ily show that he’s a poor Melody-​mak­er; makes them all alike.

CHOR. What, O what will be done! Strange to think that he dare Blame the bard who has won, More than all in our days, Fame and praise for his lays, Lays so many and fair. Much I mar­vel to hear What the charge he will bring ‘Gainst our tragedy king; Yea for him­self do I fear.

EUR. Won­der­ful lays! O yes, you’ll see di­rect­ly. I’ll cut down all his met­ri­cal strains to one.

DIO. And I, I’ll take some peb­bles, and keep count.

(_A slight pause, dur­ing which the mu­sic of a flute is heard. The mu­sic con­tin­ues to the end of line 1277 as an ac­com­pa­ni­ment to the recita­tive_.)

EUR. Lord of Ph­thia, Achilles, _why hear­ing the voice of the hero-​di­vid­ing. Hah! smit­ing! ap­proach­est thou not to the res­cue_? We, by the lake who _abide, are ador­ing our an­ces­tor Her­mes. Hah! smit­ing! ap­proach­est thou not to the res­cue?_

DIO. O Aeschy­lus, twice art thou smit­ten!

EUR. Hear­ken to me, great king; yea, hear­ken _Atrei­des, thou no­blest of all the Achaeans. Hah! smit­ing! ap­proach­est thou not to the res­cue_?

DIO. Thrice, Aeschy­lus, thrice art thou smit­ten!

EUR. Hush! the bee-​war­dens are here: they _will quick­ly the Tem­ple of Artemis open. Hah! smit­ing! ap­proach­est thou not to the res­cue?_ I will ex­pound (for _I know it_) _the omen the chief­tains en­coun­tered. Hah! smit­ing! ap­proach­est thou not to the res­cue?_

DIO. O Zeus and King, the ter­ri­ble lot of smit­ings! I’ll to the bath: I’m very sure my kid­neys Are quite in­flamed and swoln with all these smit­ings.

EUR. Wait till you’ve heard an­oth­er batch of lays Culled from his lyre-​ac­com­pa­nied melodies.

DIO. Go on then, go: but no more smit­ings, please.

EUR. How the twin-​throned pow­ers of _Achaea, the lords of the mighty Hel­lenes_. O phlat­tothrat­tophlat­tothrat! Sendeth _the Sphinx, the un­chancy, the chief­tai­ness blood-​hound._ O phlat­tothrat­tophlat­tothrat! Launcheth fierce with brand _and hand the avengers the ter­ri­ble ea­gle_. O phlat­tothrat­tophlat­tothrat! So for the swift-_winged hounds of the air he pro­vid­ed a booty._ O phlat­tothrat­tophlat­tothrat! The throng down-​bear­ing on Aias. O phlat­tothrat­tophlat­tothrat!

DIO. Whence comes that phlat­tothrat? From Marathon, or Where picked you up these ca­ble-​twister’s strains?

AESCH. From no­blest source for no­blest ends I brought them, Un­will­ing in the Mus­es’ holy field The self-​same flow­ers as Phryn­ichus to cull. But _he_ from all things rot­ten draws his lays, From Car­ian flut­ings, catch­es of Mele­tus, Dance-​mu­sic, dirges. You shall hear di­rect­ly. Bring me the lyre. Yet where­fore need a lyre For songs like these? Where’s she that bangs and jan­gles Her cas­tanets? Eu­ripi­des’s Muse, Present your­self: fit god­dess for fit verse.

DIO. The Muse her­self can’t be a wan­ton? No!

AESCH. Hal­cyons, who by the ev­er-​rip­pling Waves of the sea are bab­bling, Dew­ing your plumes with the drops that fall From wings in the salt spray dab­bling.

Spi­ders, ev­er with twir-​r-​r-​r-​r-​rling fin­gers Weav­ing the warp and the woof, Lit­tle, brit­tle, net­work, fret­work, Un­der the coigns of the roof.

The min­strel shut­tle’s care.

Where in the front of the dark-​prowed ships Yare­ly the flute-​lov­ing dol­phin skips.

Races here and or­acles there. And the joy of the young vines smil­ing,

And the ten­dril of grapes, care-​be­guil­ing.

O em­brace me, my child, O em­brace me. (_To Dio_.) You see this foot?

DIO. I do.

AESCH. And this?

DIO. And that one too.

AESCH. (_To Eur_.) You, such stuff who com­pile, Dare my songs to up­braid; You, whose songs in the style Of Gyrene’s em­braces are made. So much for them: but still I’d like to show The way in which your monodies are framed. O dark­ly-​light mys­te­ri­ous Night, What may this Vi­sion mean, Sent from the world un­seen With bale­ful omens rife; A thing of life­less life, A child of sable night, A ghast­ly cur­dling sight, In black fu­ne­re­al veils, With mur­der, mur­der in its eyes, And great enor­mous nails?

Light ye the lanterns, my maid­ens, and dip­ping your jugs in the stream, Draw me the dew of the wa­ter, and heat it to boil­ing and steam, So will I wash me away the ill ef­fects of my dream.

“God of the sea! My dream’s come true. Ho, lodgers, ho, This por­tent view. Glyce has van­ished, car­ry­ing off my cock, My cock that crew! O Ma­nia, help! O reads of the rock Pur­sue! pur­sue! For I poor girl, was work­ing with­in, Hold­ing my distaff heavy and full, Twir-​r-​r-​r-​r-​rling my hand as the threads I spin, Weav­ing an ex­cel­lent bob­bin of wool: Think­ing ‘To-​mor­row I’ll go to the fair, In the dusk of the morn, and be sell­ing it there.’ But he to the blue up­flew, up­flew, On the lightli­est tips of his wings out­spread; To me he be­queathed but woe, but woe, And tears, sad tears, from my eyes o’er­flow, Which I, the be­reaved, must shed, must shed. O chil­dren of Ida, sons of Crete, Grasp­ing your bows to the res­cue come; Twin­kle about on your rest­less feet, Stand in a cir­cle around her home. O Artemis, thou maid di­vine, Dic­tyn­na, huntress, fair to see, O bring that keen-​nosed pack of thine, And hunt through all the house with me. O Hecate, with flame­ful brands, O Zeus’s daugh­ter, arm thine hands, Those swiftli­est hands, both right and left; Thy rays on Glyce’s cot­tage throw That I serene­ly there may go And search by moon­light for the theft.”

DIO. Enough of both your odes.

AESCH. Enough for me. Now would I bring the fel­low to the scales. That, that alone, shall test our po­et­ry now, And prove whose words are weight­iest, his or mine.

DIO. Then both come hith­er, since I needs must weigh The art po­et­ic like a pound of cheese.

CHOR.

O the labour these wits go through! O the wild, ex­trav­agant, new, Won­der­ful things they are go­ing to do! Who but they would ev­er have thought of it? Why, if a man had hap­pened to meet me Out in the street, and in­tel­li­gence brought of it, I should have thought he was try­ing to cheat me; Thought that his sto­ry was false and de­ceiv­ing. That were a tale I could nev­er be­lieve in.

DIO. Each of you stand be­side his scale.

AESCH. and EUR. We’re here.

DIO. And grasp it firm­ly whilst ye speak your lines, And don’t let go un­til I cry “Cuck­oo.”

AESCH. EUR. Ready!

DIO. Now speak your lines in­to the scale.

EUR. _O that the Ar­go had not winged her way_– AESCH. _Riv­er Spercheius, cat­tle-​graz­ing haunts_–

DIO. _Cuck­oo! let go. O look, by far the low­est_ His scale sinks down.

EUR. Why, how came that about?

DIO. He threw a riv­er in, like some wool-​sell­er Wet­ting his wool, to make it weight the more. But _you_ threw in a light and winged word.

EUR. Come, let him match an­oth­er verse with mine.

DIO. Each to his scale.

AESCH. EUR. We’re ready.

DIO. Speak your lines.

EUR. _Per­sua­sion’s on­ly shrine is elo­quent speech._

AESCH. _Death loves not gifts, alone amongst the gods_

DIO. Let go, let go. Down goes his scale again. He threw in Death, the heav­iest ill of all.

EUR. And I Per­sua­sion, the most love­ly word.

DIO. A vain and emp­ty sound, de­void of sense. Think of some heav­ier-​weight­ed line of yours, To drag your scale down: some­thing strong and big.

EUR. Where have I got one? Where? Let’s see.

DIO. I’ll tell you. _”Achilles threw two sin­gles and a four_.” Come, speak your lines: this is your last set-​to.

EUR. _In his right hand he grasped an iron-​clamped mace_.

AESCH. _Char­iot on char­iot, corpse on corpse was hurled_.

DIO. There now! again he has done you.

EUR. Done me? How?

DIO. He threw two char­iots and two corpses in; Five-​score Egyp­tians could not lift that weight.

AESCH. No more of “line for line”; let him–him­self, His chil­dren, wife, Cephisophon–get in, With all his books col­lect­ed in his arms, Two lines of mine shall over­weigh the lot.

DIO. Both are my friends; I can’t de­cide be­tween them: I don’t de­sire to be at odds with ei­ther: One is so clever, one de­lights me so.

PLU­TO. Then you’ll ef­fect noth­ing for which you came?

DIO. And how, if I de­cide?

PLU­TO. Then take the win­ner; So will your jour­ney not be made in vain.

DIO. Heav­en bless your High­ness! Lis­ten, I came down Af­ter a po­et.

EUR. To what end?

DIO. That so The city, saved, may keep her choral games. Now then, whichev­er of you two shall best Ad­vise the city, _he_ shall come with me. And first of Al­cib­iades, let each Say what he thinks; the city tra­vails sore.

EUR. What does she think her­self about him?

DIO. What? She loves, and hates, and longs to have him back. But give me _your_ ad­vice about the man.

EUR. I loathe a towns­man who is slow to aid, And swift to hurt, his town: who ways and means Finds for him­self, but finds not for the state.

DIO. Po­sei­don, but that’s smart! (_To Aesch_.) And what say _you?_

AESCH. ‘Twere best to rear no li­on in the state: But hav­ing reared, ’tis best to hu­mour him.

DIO. By Zeus the Saviour, still I can’t de­cide. One is so clever, and so clear the oth­er. But once again. Let each in turn de­clare What plan of safe­ty for the state ye’ve got.

EUR. [First with Cine­sias wing Cle­ocri­tus, Then zephyrs waft them o’er the wa­tery plain.

DIO. A fun­ny sight, I own: but where’s the sense?

EUR. If, when the fleets en­gage, they hold­ing cruets Should rain down vine­gar in the foe­men’s eyes,] I know, and I can tell you.

DIO. Tell away.

EUR. When things, mis­trust­ed now, shall trust­ed be, And trust­ed things, mis­trust­ed.

DIO. How! I don’t quite com­pre­hend. Be clear, and not so clever.

EUR. If we mis­trust those cit­izens of ours Whom now we trust, and those em­ploy whom now We don’t em­ploy, the city will be saved. If on our present tack we fail, we sure­ly Shall find sal­va­tion in the op­po­site course.

DIO. Good, O Palamedes! Good, you ge­nius you. [Is this _your_ clev­er­ness or Cephisophon’s?

EUR. This is my own: the cruet-​plan was his.]

DIO. (_To Aesch._) Now, you.

AESCH. But tell me whom the city us­es. The good and use­ful?

DIO. What are you dream­ing of? She hates and loathes them.

AESCH. Does she love the bad?

DIO. Not love them, no: she us­es them per­force.

AESCH. How can one save a city such as this, Whom nei­ther frieze nor woollen tu­nic suits?

DIO. O, if to earth you rise, find out some way.

AESCH. There will I speak: I can­not an­swer here.

DIO. Nay, nay; send up your guer­don from be­low.

AESCH. When they shall count the en­emy’s soil their own, And theirs the en­emy’s: when they know that ships Are their true wealth, their so-​called wealth delu­sion.

DIO. Aye, but the jus­tices suck that down, you know.

PLU­TO. Now then, de­cide.

DIO. I will; and thus I’ll do it. I’ll choose the man in whom my soul de­lights.

EUR. O, rec­ol­lect the gods by whom you swore You’d take me home again; and choose your friends.

DIO. ‘Twas my tongue swore; my choice is–Aeschy­lus.

EUR. Hah! what have you done?

DIO. Done? Giv­en the vic­tor’s prize To Aeschy­lus; why not?

EUR. And do you dare look in my face, af­ter that shame­ful deed?

DIO. What’s shame­ful, if the au­di­ence think not so?

EUR. Have you no heart? Wretch; would you leave me dead?

DIO. Who knows if death be life, and life be death, And breath be mut­ton broth, and sleep a sheep­skin?

PLU­TO. Now, Diony­sus, come ye in.

DIO. What for?

PLU­TO. And sup be­fore ye go.

DIO. A bright idea. I’ faith, I’m no­wise in­dis­posed for that.

CHOR. Blest the man who pos­sess­es a Keen in­tel­li­gent mind. This full of­ten we find. He, the bard of renown, Now to earth reas­cends, Goes, a joy to his town, Goes, a joy to his friends, Just be­cause he pos­sess­es a Keen in­tel­li­gent mind. RIGHT it is and be­fit­ting, Not by Socrates sit­ting, Idle talk to pur­sue, Strip­ping tragedy-​art of All things no­ble and true, Sure­ly the mind to school Fine-​drawn quib­bles to seek, Fine-​set phras­es to speak, Is but the part of a fool!

PLU­TO. Farewell then, Aeschy­lus, great and wise, Go, save our state by the max­ims rare Of thy no­ble thought; and the fools chas­tise,

For many a fool dwells there. And _this_ to Cleophon give, my friend, And _this_ to the rev­enue-​rais­ing crew, Nico­machus, Myrmex, next I send, And _this_ to Archeno­mus too. And bid them all that with­out de­lay, To my realm of the dead they has­ten away. For if they loi­ter above, I swear I’ll come my­self and ar­rest them there. And brand­ed and fet­tered the slaves shall go With the vilest ras­cal in all the town, Adeiman­tus, son of Leu­colo­phus, down, Down, down to the dark­ness be­low.

AESCH. I take the mis­sion. This chair of mine Mean­while to Sopho­cles here com­mit, (For I count him next in our craft di­vine,) Till I come once more by thy side to sit. But as for that ras­cal­ly scoundrel there, That low buf­foon, that work­er of ill, O let him not sit in my va­cant chair, Not even against his will.

PLU­TO. (To the Cho­rus.) Es­cort him up with your mys­tic throngs, While the holy torch­es quiver and blaze. Es­cort him up with his own sweet songs and his no­ble fes­ti­val lays.

CHOR. First, as the po­et tri­umphant is pass­ing away to the light, Grant him suc­cess on his jour­ney, ye pow­ers that are rul­ing be­low. Grant that he find for the city good coun­sels to guide her aright; So we at last shall be freed from the an­guish, the fear, and the woe, Freed from the on­sets of war. Let Cleophon now and his band Bat­tle, if bat­tle they must, far away in their own fa­ther­land.

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We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the on­ly ones that have re­spond­ed.

As the re­quire­ments for oth­er states are met, ad­di­tions to this list will be made and fund rais­ing will be­gin in the ad­di­tion­al states. Please feel free to ask to check the sta­tus of your state.

In an­swer to var­ious ques­tions we have re­ceived on this:

We are con­stant­ly work­ing on fin­ish­ing the pa­per­work to legal­ly re­quest do­na­tions in all 50 states. If your state is not list­ed and you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have, just ask.

While we can­not so­lic­it do­na­tions from peo­ple in states where we are not yet reg­is­tered, we know of no pro­hi­bi­tion against ac­cept­ing do­na­tions from donors in these states who ap­proach us with an of­fer to do­nate.

In­ter­na­tion­al do­na­tions are ac­cept­ed, but we don’t know ANY­THING about how to make them tax-​de­ductible, or even if they CAN be made de­ductible, and don’t have the staff to han­dle it even if there are ways.

Do­na­tions by check or mon­ey or­der may be sent to:

Project Guten­berg Lit­er­ary Archive Foun­da­tion PMB 113 1739 Uni­ver­si­ty Ave. Ox­ford, MS 38655-4109

Con­tact us if you want to ar­range for a wire trans­fer or pay­ment method oth­er than by check or mon­ey or­der.

The Project Guten­berg Lit­er­ary Archive Foun­da­tion has been ap­proved by the US In­ter­nal Rev­enue Ser­vice as a 501(c)(3) or­ga­ni­za­tion with EIN [Em­ploy­ee Iden­ti­fi­ca­tion Num­ber] 64-622154. Do­na­tions are tax-​de­ductible to the max­imum ex­tent per­mit­ted by law. As fund-​rais­ing re­quire­ments for oth­er states are met, ad­di­tions to this list will be made and fund-​rais­ing will be­gin in the ad­di­tion­al states.

We need your do­na­tions more than ev­er!

You can get up to date do­na­tion in­for­ma­tion on­line at:

http://www.guten­berg.net/do­na­tion.html

***

If you can’t reach Project Guten­berg, you can al­ways email di­rect­ly to:

Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com>

Prof. Hart will an­swer or for­ward your mes­sage.

We would pre­fer to send you in­for­ma­tion by email.

**The Le­gal Small Print**

(Three Pages)

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