to thy quiver there in Delphi, begging not to live in such wretched poverty.

There is nothing hateful in aiming one’s abuse at wicked rogues—no, if one reasons well

it’s paying a tribute to worthwhile citizens. So if the man about whom we must now proclaim many bad things were himself well known to all, I would not mention someone who is my friend. Now, there is no one who can tell the colour white from Orthian melodies who does not know Agrignotus. Well, that man has a brother, Ariphrades, who in his habits is not like him

and wants to be that way. He is not only bad— if that were all, I wouldn’t pay him any mind—

not only completely nasty, but has invented something even worse. He corrupts his own tongue with revolting pleasures, licking disgusting juices inside prostitutes’ pussies, staining his beard, stirring up coals in those hot fires, carrying on like Polymnestus, and hanging out with Oeonichus. Any person who does not despise a man like that will never drink from the same cup as I do.

At night certain thoughts often come to me,

and I wonder where Cleonymus gets food

for that voracious appetite he has. They say that when he grazed on rich men’s tables he’d never leave the tub of food alone. And they’d keep begging him in unison, “O lord, by your knees, leave—spare our table.”

They say our warships once all met together

to chat to one another, and one of them, an older lady, said, “Girls, don’t you realize what’s going on in the city? People are claiming some man is requisitioning one hundred of us

to sail off to Carthage—some worthless citizen called sour Hyperbolus.” All of them thought this totally outrageous and would not endure it. One of those ships, a virgin who’d not yet come near a crew of men, declared, “May god protect us, that man will never become my master! Instead, I’ll grow old here, if I must, with festering wood chewed up by worms.” “By the gods, he’ll not command Nauphanta, daughter of Nauson, not if I, too, am constructed out of pine and timbers. And so,

if Athenians take up Hyperbolus’s scheme, then I think we should hoist sail and seek refuge at the Theseum or the Furies’ sanctuary. He won’t take charge of us and mock the city. If that’s what he wants, let him sail off by himself and descend to Hades, once he’s launched those tubs he used when trying to sell those lamps of his.”

We must maintain a holy silence, keeping our mouths firmly closed, refraining from giving evidence, and closing those courts

from which the city gets so much delight. To salute our new good fortune, people here should sing a sacred song of gratitude.

O you flaming light for sacred Athens protector of the islands, what good news do you carry as you move here, for which