all over me, just like a cuttle fish.
It’s a nasty business when the hearts of men
swim in vinegar and they throw stones, shout,
and do not wish to hear of compromise,
an equal blending of two points of view,
not even when I volunteer to place
my head upon a butcher’s block and state
all I have to say in defence of Sparta,
even though I truly cherish my own life.
All right, you fool, drag out a block
and place it there by your front walk.
Then you can give your grand review.
We’re keen to learn your point of view.
Now follow the form of justice you proposed:
set your head on the chopping block and speak.
Here is the block. I am little gifted
as a speaker, but I intend, by Zeus,
to talk about the Lacedaemonians
quite freely and without the protection
of my shield. Nonetheless, I am afraid.
There are many reasons for my fear.
I know the way our country folk behave:
they are overjoyed if some fast-talker comes
and pours out over them and their city
his lavish praises—whether true or false.
They are not aware that in the process
they are being deceived—bought and sold.
I understand how old men think, as well—
the only thing they want to do in juries
is bite the poor defendant with their votes.
I well recall what I went through last year
from Cleon, because of the play I wrote.
He had me hauled up before the Senate
and shouted countless slanders against me—
a torrent of abuse, a parade of lies,
dragging me through so many muddy fights
I almost died. So please allow me now,
before I speak to you, to dress myself
in a style most likely to draw pity.
Why these evasions and such long delays?
Put on Hades’s helmet—its black plume
made of shaggy hair is a fine costume.
This you can borrow from Hieronymus.
And open with the tricks of Sisyphus.
But do it quickly and without delay,
for our discussion must take place today.
It’s time for me to show my strength of heart
by paying a visit to Euripides.
[Dicaeopolis walks over to Euripides’ house. He knocks on the door and calls out.](*)
Boy! Boy!
Who is it?
Is Euripides at home?
No, he’s not at home and yes he is inside!
You’ll understand if you have sufficient wit.
How can he be and not be inside?
Old man, it’s all quite logical. His mind
is not in the house but outside, collecting
scraps of poetry. He himself is inside
with his feet up, writing a tragedy.
O thrice blessed Euripides, to possess
a slave with such sophisticated wits.
Summon him here.
That is impossible.
No matter. For I shall not leave this place.
No! Instead I shall knock upon the door.
Euripides . . . my dear little Euripides . . .
Answer me, if ever thou didst reply
to any mortal being. I’m summoning you.
I, Dicaeopolis from Cholleidae.
I have no time for you.
All right, then.
Let the stage machinery wheel you out.
No, no! Impossible!
But nonetheless . . . please.
All right then, let them roll me outside.
I am too busy to come down below.
Euripides . . .
Why dost thou cry out?
You compose your tragedies lying prone,
O thrice blessed Euripides, to possess
a slave with such sophisticated wits.
Summon him here.
That is impossible.
No matter. For I shall not leave this place.
No! Instead I shall knock upon the door.
Euripides . . . my dear little Euripides . . .
Answer me, if ever thou didst reply
to any mortal being. I’m summoning you.
I, Dicaeopolis from Cholleidae.
I have no time for you.
All right, then.
Let the stage machinery wheel you out.
No, no! Impossible!
But nonetheless . . . please.
All right then, let them roll me outside.
I am too busy to come down below.
Euripides . . .
Why dost thou cry out?
You compose your tragedies lying prone,
when you could keep your feet upon the ground.
I’m not surprised you like to portray cripples
on the stage. And why are you dressed like that—
in those tragic rags? You look pitiful.
No wonder you like to write of beggars.
But on my knees I beg you, Euripides
give me some tattered rags from an old play.
I have to give a long speech to the Chorus,
and if I am not successful, then I die.
What sort of rags? The ones Oeneus wore
when he competed for the drama prize,
that pitiful, miserable old man?
No, not Oeneus. Someone still more wretched.
when you could keep your feet upon the ground.
I’m not surprised you like to portray cripples
on the stage. And why are you dressed like that—
in those tragic rags? You look pitiful.
No wonder you like to write of beggars.
But on my knees I beg you, Euripides
give me some tattered rags from an old play.
I have to give a long speech to the Chorus,
and if I am not successful, then I die.
What sort of rags? The ones Oeneus wore
when he competed for the drama prize,
that pitiful, miserable old man?
No, not Oeneus. Someone still more wretched.
when you could keep your feet upon the ground.
I’m not surprised you like to portray cripples
on the stage. And why are you dressed like that—
in those tragic rags? You look pitiful.
No wonder you like to write of beggars.
But on my knees I beg you, Euripides
give me some tattered rags from an old play.
I have to give a long speech to the Chorus,
and if I am not successful, then I die.
What sort of rags? The ones Oeneus wore
when he competed for the drama prize,
that pitiful, miserable old man?
No, not Oeneus. Someone still more wretched.
What about blind Phoenix?
No, not Phoenix.
Someone else more miserable than him.
What kind of ragged clothing does he want?
Do you mean the costume of Philoctetes,
the beggarman?
No no. I mean someone more impoverished than him.
What about that cripple Bellerophon?
Do you want his filthy tattered costume?
No, not Bellerophon, but a hero
who was a crippled beggar and also
very talkative and a glib speaker.
I know the man! It must be Telephus.
a man from Mysia.
DICAEOPOLIS Telephus.
Can you please give me his swaddling clothes?
Boy! Give him Telephus’s tattered costume!
It’s lying on top of Thyestes’s rags
under those of Ino.
SLAVE Here they are. Catch!
‘O Zeus, whose all-piercing eye roams everywhere,’
permit me to dress myself in these rags,
the most miserable costume I could find!
Euripides, since you have been so kind,
could you give me the little Mysian cap
to cover my head. It’s such a grand match
for these tattered clothes. ‘Today I must look
a man from Mysia.
DICAEOPOLIS Telephus.
Can you please give me his swaddling clothes?
Boy! Give him Telephus’s tattered costume!
It’s lying on top of Thyestes’s rags
under those of Ino.
SLAVE Here they are. Catch!
‘O Zeus, whose all-piercing eye roams everywhere,’
permit me to dress myself in these rags,
the most miserable costume I could find!
Euripides, since you have been so kind,
could you give me the little Mysian cap
to cover my head. It’s such a grand match
for these tattered clothes. ‘Today I must look
just like a beggar—I must act what I am,
yet appear to be someone else.’ The audience
will know the real me, but the Chorus
will stand there like fools, while I dupe them
with some subtle, fast-talking rhetoric.
I’ll let you have the cap, for your mind
is shrewd and full of subtle tricks.
‘Fare thee well—and good luck to Telephus.’
I feel already full of clever talk.
but I still need to have a beggar’s staff.
Have that one. Now take your leave—depart
from my front porch of polished stone.
O my heart,
you see how I am driven from this house,
when I am still in need of so much more.
But now I must persevere, importune,
and whine. O Euripides, please give me
a basket with a hole burnt through its base.
Why does a wretch like you need wickerwork?
I don’t need it, but I want it anyway.
You’re such a nuisance. Get out of my house!
‘Alas! May you enjoy good fortune,
just as your mother used to do.’
It’s time you took your leave of me.
But I need you to give me one thing more—
a little cup with the lip broken off.
Take it and be damned! You must realize
you’re making trouble in my house!
DICAEOPOLIS [aside, in a tragic tone] By Zeus,
you are not yet cognizant of the harm you are doing to yourself.
My sweetest Euripides,
I need one thing more. Please let me have
a tiny pot plugged with a sponge.
You are stealing my entire tragedy!
Take it, and get out of here.
DICAEOPOLIS I’m leaving.
But what am I doing? I need one thing more.
If I don’t have it, I will be destroyed!
Listen to me, my dear Euripides,
if I can take it, I will go away,
and I will not return. Give me a few herbs,
to put in my wicker basket.
You’ll be the death of me!
You have gutted my entire play!
That’s it! No more. I’ll be on my way.
I am too annoying, ‘though I did not think
the royal master hated me.’
O damn and blast!
I’m done for. I’ve forgotten something—
one item essential to this business.
O my dearest and sweetest Euripides,
may I die a nasty death if I ever
ask you again--except for this one thing—
just this one and then nothing more—
give me some parsley from your mother’s cart.
The man is insolent! Lock up the house!
O my heart, I must leave without the parsley.
Are you aware of the mighty battle
we must soon contest by speaking out
in defence of Lacedaemonians?
This is the moment, my heart, to march ahead—
we stand at the line where the race begins.
Do you pause? Did you not feed on Euripides?
That’s good! Come on, my palpitating heart,
go there and lay your head down on the block,
and tell them the truth as you perceive it.
Be brave! March on! How I admire my courage!
What are you doing? What will you say?
Frederick William Hall (1865–1948) was a classical scholar and Fellow of St John's College, Oxford. Together with William Martin Geldart, he produced the Oxford Classical Text of several authors. Hall was a careful editor known for his thorough collation of manuscripts and his conservative approach to textual criticism.
The Hall–Geldart editions in the Oxford Classical Texts series provide reliable critical texts with selective apparatus criticus. The OCT series, established in 1894 as the Scriptorum Classicorum Bibliotheca Oxoniensis, aims to present the best available Greek and Latin texts in a format suitable for both scholarly use and teaching. Each volume provides a clean text with the most significant manuscript variants recorded at the foot of each page.
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