The
Spartans
too have lost their pestle.
Aristophanes
WAR. Be back as quick as ever you can.
TRYGAEUS (_to the audience_). What is going to happen, friends? 'Tis a
critical hour. Ah! if there is some initiate of Samothrace[281] among
you, 'tis surely the moment to wish this messenger some accident--some
sprain or strain.
TUMULT (_who returns_). Alas! alas! thrice again, alas!
WAR. What is it? Again you come back without it?
TUMULT.
The Spartans too have lost their pestle.
WAR. How, varlet?
TUMULT. They had lent it to their allies in Thrace,[282] who have lost it
for them.
TRYGAEUS. Long life to you, Thracians! My hopes revive, pluck up courage,
mortals!
WAR. Take all this stuff away; I am going in to make a pestle for myself.
TRYGAEUS. 'Tis now the time to sing as Datis did, as he masturbated
himself at high noon, "Oh pleasure! oh enjoyment! oh delights! " 'Tis now,
oh Greeks! the moment when freed of quarrels and fighting, we should
rescue sweet Peace and draw her out of this pit, before some other pestle
prevents us.
