Tell me then why, if these really are the Clouds, they so
very much resemble mortals.
very much resemble mortals.
Aristophanes
the venerable goddesses!
Why, they
fill up the entire stage.
SOCRATES. And you did not know, you never suspected, that they were
goddesses?
STREPSIADES. No, indeed; methought the Clouds were only fog, dew and
vapour.
SOCRATES. But what you certainly do not know is that they are the support
of a crowd of quacks, both the diviners, who were sent to Thurium,[503]
the notorious physicians, the well-combed fops, who load their fingers
with rings down to the nails, and the baggarts, who write dithyrambic
verses, all these are idlers whom the Clouds provide a living for,
because they sing them in their verses.
STREPSIADES. 'Tis then for this that they praise "the rapid flight of the
moist clouds, which veil the brightness of day" and "the waving locks of
the hundred-headed Typho" and "the impetuous tempests, which float
through the heavens, like birds of prey with aerial wings, loaded with
mists" and "the rains, the dew, which the clouds outpour. "[504] As a
reward for these fine phrases they bolt well-grown, tasty mullet and
delicate thrushes.
SOCRATES. Yes, thanks to these. And is it not right and meet?
STREPSIADES.
Tell me then why, if these really are the Clouds, they so
very much resemble mortals. This is not their usual form.
SOCRATES. What are they like then?
STREPSIADES. I don't know exactly; well, they are like great packs of
wool, but not like women--no, not in the least. . . . And these have noses.
SOCRATES. Answer my questions.
STREPSIADES. Willingly! Go on, I am listening.
SOCRATES.
fill up the entire stage.
SOCRATES. And you did not know, you never suspected, that they were
goddesses?
STREPSIADES. No, indeed; methought the Clouds were only fog, dew and
vapour.
SOCRATES. But what you certainly do not know is that they are the support
of a crowd of quacks, both the diviners, who were sent to Thurium,[503]
the notorious physicians, the well-combed fops, who load their fingers
with rings down to the nails, and the baggarts, who write dithyrambic
verses, all these are idlers whom the Clouds provide a living for,
because they sing them in their verses.
STREPSIADES. 'Tis then for this that they praise "the rapid flight of the
moist clouds, which veil the brightness of day" and "the waving locks of
the hundred-headed Typho" and "the impetuous tempests, which float
through the heavens, like birds of prey with aerial wings, loaded with
mists" and "the rains, the dew, which the clouds outpour. "[504] As a
reward for these fine phrases they bolt well-grown, tasty mullet and
delicate thrushes.
SOCRATES. Yes, thanks to these. And is it not right and meet?
STREPSIADES.
Tell me then why, if these really are the Clouds, they so
very much resemble mortals. This is not their usual form.
SOCRATES. What are they like then?
STREPSIADES. I don't know exactly; well, they are like great packs of
wool, but not like women--no, not in the least. . . . And these have noses.
SOCRATES. Answer my questions.
STREPSIADES. Willingly! Go on, I am listening.
SOCRATES.
