Your
wretched
towns shall be grated
like this cheese.
like this cheese.
Aristophanes
TRYGAEUS. This does not yet concern us over much; 'tis only so much the
worse for the Laconians.
WAR. Oh! Megara! Megara! how utterly are you going to be ground up! what
fine mincemeat[276] are you to be made into!
TRYGAEUS. Alas! alas! what bitter tears there will be among the
Megarians! [277]
WAR. Oh, Sicily! you too must perish!
Your wretched towns shall be grated
like this cheese. [278] Now let us pour some Attic honey[279] into the
mortar.
TRYGAEUS. Oh! I beseech you! use some other honey; this kind is worth
four obols; be careful, oh! be careful of our Attic honey.
WAR. Hi! Tumult, you slave there!
TUMULT. What do you want?
WAR. Out upon you! You stand there with folded arms. Take this cuff o'
the head for your pains.
