What holy prayers to the rulers of
Olympus!
Aristophanes
adorable Clouds, I revere you and I too am going to let
off _my_ thunder, so greatly has your own affrighted me. Faith! whether
permitted or not, I must, I must shit!
SOCRATES. No scoffing; do not copy those accursed comic poets. Come,
silence! a numerous host of goddesses approaches with songs.
CHORUS. Virgins, who pour forth the rains, let us move toward Attica, the
rich country of Pallas, the home of the brave; let us visit the dear land
of Cecrops, where the secret rites[501] are celebrated, where the
mysterious sanctuary flies open to the initiate. . . . What victims are
offered there to the deities of heaven! What glorious temples! What
statues!
What holy prayers to the rulers of Olympus! At every season
nothing but sacred festivals, garlanded victims, are to be seen. Then
Spring brings round again the joyous feasts of Dionysus, the harmonious
contests of the choruses and the serious melodies of the flute.
STREPSIADES. By Zeus! Tell me, Socrates, I pray you, who are these women,
whose language is so solemn; can they be demigoddesses?
SOCRATES. Not at all. They are the Clouds of heaven, great goddesses for
the lazy; to them we owe all, thoughts, speeches, trickery, roguery,
boasting, lies, sagacity.
STREPSIADES. Ah! that was why, as I listened to them, my mind spread out
its wings; it burns to babble about trifles, to maintain worthless
arguments, to voice its petty reasons, to contradict, to tease some
opponent. But are they not going to show themselves? I should like to see
them, were it possible.
SOCRATES. Well, look this way in the direction of Parnes;[502] I already
see those who are slowly descending.
off _my_ thunder, so greatly has your own affrighted me. Faith! whether
permitted or not, I must, I must shit!
SOCRATES. No scoffing; do not copy those accursed comic poets. Come,
silence! a numerous host of goddesses approaches with songs.
CHORUS. Virgins, who pour forth the rains, let us move toward Attica, the
rich country of Pallas, the home of the brave; let us visit the dear land
of Cecrops, where the secret rites[501] are celebrated, where the
mysterious sanctuary flies open to the initiate. . . . What victims are
offered there to the deities of heaven! What glorious temples! What
statues!
What holy prayers to the rulers of Olympus! At every season
nothing but sacred festivals, garlanded victims, are to be seen. Then
Spring brings round again the joyous feasts of Dionysus, the harmonious
contests of the choruses and the serious melodies of the flute.
STREPSIADES. By Zeus! Tell me, Socrates, I pray you, who are these women,
whose language is so solemn; can they be demigoddesses?
SOCRATES. Not at all. They are the Clouds of heaven, great goddesses for
the lazy; to them we owe all, thoughts, speeches, trickery, roguery,
boasting, lies, sagacity.
STREPSIADES. Ah! that was why, as I listened to them, my mind spread out
its wings; it burns to babble about trifles, to maintain worthless
arguments, to voice its petty reasons, to contradict, to tease some
opponent. But are they not going to show themselves? I should like to see
them, were it possible.
SOCRATES. Well, look this way in the direction of Parnes;[502] I already
see those who are slowly descending.
