Have no fear! If I can find stones to throw into this nest of jurymen-wasps, I shall soon have them cleared off.
CHORUS: March on, advance boldly and bravely! Comias, your feet are dragging; once you were as tough as a dog-skin strap and now even Charinades walks better than you. Ha! Strymodorus of Conthylé, you best of mates, where is Euergides and where is Chales of Phyla? Ha, ha, bravo! there you are, the last of the lads with whom we mounted guard together at Byzantium. Do you remember how, one night, prowling round, we noiselessly stole the kneading-trough of a baker's-wife; we split it in two and cooked our green-stuff with it.--But let us hasten, for the case of the Laches comes on to-day, and they all say he has embezzled a pot of money. Hence Cleon, our protector, advised us yesterday to come early and with a three days' stock of fiery rage so as to chastise him for his crimes. Let us hurry, comrades, before it is light; come, let us search every nook with our lanterns to see whether those who wish us ill have not set us some trap.
Ah! here is mud! Father, take care!
CHORUS: Pick up a blade of straw and trim the lamp of your lantern.
BOY: No, I can trim it quite well with my finger.
CHORUS: Why do you pull out the wick, you little dolt? Oil is scarce, and 'tis not you who suffer when it has to be paid for. (_Strikes him._)
BOY: If you teach us again with your fists, we shall put out the lamps and go home; then you will have no light and will squatter about in the mud like ducks in the dark.
I know how to punish other offenders bigger than you. But I think I am treading in some mud. Oh! 'tis certain it will rain in torrents for four days at least; look, what thieves are in our lamps; that is always a sign of heavy rain; but the rain and the north wind will be good for the crops that are still standing.... Why, what can have happened to our mate, who lives here? Why does he not come to join our party? There used to be no need to haul him in our wake, for he would march at our head singing the verses of Phrynichus; he was a lover of singing. Should we not, friends, make a halt here and sign to call him out? The charm of my voice will fetch him out, if he hears it. Why does the old man not show himself before the door? why does he not answer? Has he lost his shoes? has he stubbed his toe in the dark and thus got a swollen ankle? Perhaps he has a tumour in his groin. He was the hardest of us all; he alone _never_ allowed himself to be moved. If anyone tried to move him, he would lower his head, saying, "You might just as well try to boil a stone." But I bethink me, an accused ma escaped us yesterday through his false pretence that he loved Athens and had been the first to unfold the Samian plot. Perhaps his acquittal has so distressed Philocleon that he is abed with fever--he is quite capable of such a thing.--Friend, arise, do not thus vex your heart, but forget your wrath. Today we have to judge a man made wealthy by treason, one of those who set Thrace free; we have to prepare him a funeral urn ... so march on, my boy, get a-going.
Father, would you give me something if I asked for it?
CHORUS: Assuredly, my child, but tell me what nice thing do you want me to buy you? A set of knuckle-bones, I suppose.
BOY: No, dad, I prefer figs; they are better.
CHORUS: No, by Zeus! even if you were to hang yourself with vexation.
BOY: Well then, I will lead you no father.
CHORUS: With my small pay, I am obliged to buy bread, wood, stew; and now you ask me for figs!
But, father, if the Archon should not form a court to-day, how are we to buy our dinner? Have you some good hope to offer us or merely "Hellé's sacred waves"?
CHORUS: Alas! alas! I have not a notion how we shall dine.
BOY: Oh! my poor mother! why did you let me see this day?
CHORUS: Oh! my little wallet! you seem like to be a mere useless ornament!
BOY: 'Tis our destiny to groan.
PHILOCLEON: My friends, I have long been pining away while listening to you from my window, but I absolutely know not what do do. I am detained here, because I have long wanted to go with you to the law court and do all the harm I can. Oh! Zeus! cause the peals of they thunder to roll, change me quickly into smoke or make me into a Proxenides, a perfect braggart, like the son of Sellus. Oh, King of Heaven! hesitate not to grant me this favour, pity my misfortune or else may thy dazzling lightning instantly reduce me to ashes; then carry me hence, and may thy breath hurl me into some burning pickle or turn me into one of the stones on which the votes are counted.
Who is it detains you and shuts you in? Speak, for you are talking to friends.
PHILOCLEON: 'Tis my son. But no bawling, he is there in front asleep; lower your voice.
CHORUS: But, poor fellow, what is his aim? what is his object?
PHILOCLEON: My friends, he will not have me judge nor do anyone any ill, but he wants me to stay at home and enjoy myself, and I will not.
CHORUS: This wretch, this Demolochocleon dares to say such odious things, just because you tell the truth about our navy!
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.
Tap any Greek word to look it up