god of our public assembly, protect you, and may you come back to us in triumph, adorned with the garlands of victory.

Now pay attention to our formal verses, you who have on your own already heard all the different offerings of the Muse. If one of the comic playwrights from long ago had tried to make us step out to this audience

and recite a speech, it would not have been easy for him to get his way. But today our poet is worth the effort, because he hates the same men we despise and dares to speak the truth, charging

courageously against typhoon and hurricane. He says that many of you have come up to him astonished that he did not long ago request a chorus in his own name and questioning him about it. He has asked us to explain to you why this has happened. He asserts that it was not

foolishness that prompted his delay but rather that he considered producing comic drama the most difficult task of all. Many people try to court the Comic Muse, but she grants her favours only to a few. And he has long recognized that you have a fickle nature—for you betrayed earlier poets once they grew old. He knows well what Magnes went through as soon as his hair turned white.

He had hoisted many trophies of victory over his rivals, and though he had created

every kind of sound for your delight, by singing, flapping his wings, performing as a Lydian or a gnat, or smearing himself green as a frog, that was not enough. In his youth things turned out well, but at the end, in old age, you hissed him away, that old man, whose jokes had lost their satiric bite. After that, our poet brought to mind Cratinus, who once, flowing on torrents of your approval, raced through unencumbered plains and, as he sped on, uprooted oak and plane trees and his rivals, too,

and carried them away. And at drinking parties the only songs were “O Goddess of Bribery, with sandals made of figs,” and “O you composers of intricate hymns”—that’s how famous he was then.

But look at him now—he’s a decrepit old man. His tuning pegs are gone, his tone has disappeared, his joints have split apart, yet you don’t pity him. He wanders around in his dotage, like Connas, wearing a withered garland and dying of thirst. Given his previous triumphs, he should be drinking

in the Prytaneum, and instead of acting like an idiot, he should be sitting smartly groomed with the spectators alongside Dionysus. Look at how much Crates suffered from your abuse and anger, a man who used to provide you snacks for not much money and then send you home again, coming up with the most elegant conceptions from his decorous lips. But he kept persisting, on his own, sometimes with success, sometimes failing.

Fearing such treatment, our poet kept on stalling.

What’s more, he would tell himself he should first of all work the oars before his hand could grip the tiller, and later he’d watch from the prow to check the winds— only after that would he be his own pilot. For all these reasons, he moved with great prudence, not rushing in like a fool and babbling nonsense. So raise a cheer for the man, a powerful surge with all of your fingers, a generous urge at our feast of Lenaea, so that our poet leaves here with joy and success and can know it—

his forehead all bright with glistening delight.

O Poseidon, lord of horses who rejoices in horses’ neighs, in the clatter of bronze-shod hooves, in swift triremes with deep-blue prows transporting tribute on the sea, in contests where those youthful lads who seek fame by racing chariots can suffer catastrophic spills, come to us here, to your chorus,

O god of the golden trident, you who watches over dolphins,

who are worshipped at Sunium, lord of Geraestus, son of Cronos, dearest favourite of Phormio, and for Athenians the god more beloved than all the others, the one our present crisis needs.

We wish to sing the praises of our ancestors, men worthy of this land who deserved to carry the ceremonial robe. In battles fought on land or on the sea they were victorious all the time, wherever they went—they brought our city honour. And when they viewed their enemies, none of them ever counted up their number. Instead, their hearts at once were ready for the fray. If they fell down

on their shoulder in a fight, they wiped off the dust and denied they’d had a fall. Then they would resume and fight on once again. No earlier general would have asked Cleaenetus to serve him dinner at state expense. But now they say they will not fight unless they get the privilege of front-row seats and meals, as well. As for us, we believe we should nobly guard our city and our country’s gods without being paid. We ask for nothing beyond that, except this one condition: if peace ever comes and brings our hard work to an end, you will not mind if we wear long hair and keep our skin well scrubbed.

O Pallas, guardian of our city, shielding this most sacred place,

surpassing every land in war, in poetry, and in her might, come to us here and bring with you the one who in campaigns and fights stands there beside us, Victory, companion in our choral songs, who wars with us against our foes.

Now show yourself before us here. For if there ever was a time when you must give a victory by any means to these men here that moment has arrived.

We know our horses well and wish to praise them. They are worthy of our tributes, for along with us they have endured so many battles and attacks. But we admire them not so much for these events as for the time they bravely jumped on board the ships, once they had purchased drinking cups—and some of them

got garlic, too, and onions. Then they grabbed the oars, just as we humans do, pulled hard on them, shouting,

“Horses, heave! Who’s doing the rowing? Pull back harder! What are we doing? Hey you, you pedigree nag, why aren’t you rowing?” They disembarked at Corinth. The youngest then dug resting places with their hooves and went to bring back blankets. Instead of clover, they fed themselves on crabs if any scuttled up onshore, or else they caught them on the ocean floor, so that Theorus said a Corinthian crab would cry, “O Poseidon, what a cruel misfortune if I cannot evade those knights either by land,

or even in the ocean depths, or on the sea.”

O dearest and most vigorous of men, how worried I have been since you’ve been gone. Now you’re back again safe and sound, tell us how did you make out in the competition?

The result is this—I’ve crushed the Council.

Then everyone now should shout with delight! You speak very well but your actions excite

much more than your words. So come on, lay out in very clear terms what you’ve been about. I really believe I’d go a long way