And for what sin,
Acharnian
Elders, tell me that!
Aristophanes
Oh, Phales,[193] companion of
the orgies of Bacchus, night reveller, god of adultery, friend of young
men, these past six[194] years I have not been able to invoke thee. With
what joy I return to my farmstead, thanks to the truce I have concluded,
freed from cares, from fighting and from Lamachuses! [195] How much
sweeter, Phales, oh, Phales, is it to surprise Thratta, the pretty
wood-maid, Strymodorus' slave, stealing wood from Mount Phelleus, to
catch her under the arms, to throw her on the ground and possess her! Oh,
Phales, Phales! If thou wilt drink and bemuse thyself with me, we will
to-morrow consume some good dish in honour of the peace, and I will hang
up my buckler over the smoking hearth.
CHORUS. It is he, he himself. Stone him, stone him, stone him, strike the
wretch. All, all of you, pelt him, pelt him!
DICAEOPOLIS. What is this? By Heracles, you will smash my pot. [196]
CHORUS. It is you that we are stoning, you miserable scoundrel.
DICAEOPOLIS.
And for what sin, Acharnian Elders, tell me that!
CHORUS. You ask that, you impudent rascal, traitor to your country; you
alone amongst us all have concluded a truce, and you dare to look us in
the face!
DICAEOPOLIS. But you do not know _why_ I have treated for peace. Listen!
CHORUS. Listen to you? No, no, you are about to die, we will annihilate
you with our stones.
DICAEOPOLIS. But first of all, listen. Stop, my friends.
CHORUS. I will hear nothing; do not address me; I hate you more than I do
Cleon,[197] whom one day I shall flay to make sandals for the Knights.
Listen to your long speeches, after you have treated with the Laconians!
No, I will punish you.
the orgies of Bacchus, night reveller, god of adultery, friend of young
men, these past six[194] years I have not been able to invoke thee. With
what joy I return to my farmstead, thanks to the truce I have concluded,
freed from cares, from fighting and from Lamachuses! [195] How much
sweeter, Phales, oh, Phales, is it to surprise Thratta, the pretty
wood-maid, Strymodorus' slave, stealing wood from Mount Phelleus, to
catch her under the arms, to throw her on the ground and possess her! Oh,
Phales, Phales! If thou wilt drink and bemuse thyself with me, we will
to-morrow consume some good dish in honour of the peace, and I will hang
up my buckler over the smoking hearth.
CHORUS. It is he, he himself. Stone him, stone him, stone him, strike the
wretch. All, all of you, pelt him, pelt him!
DICAEOPOLIS. What is this? By Heracles, you will smash my pot. [196]
CHORUS. It is you that we are stoning, you miserable scoundrel.
DICAEOPOLIS.
And for what sin, Acharnian Elders, tell me that!
CHORUS. You ask that, you impudent rascal, traitor to your country; you
alone amongst us all have concluded a truce, and you dare to look us in
the face!
DICAEOPOLIS. But you do not know _why_ I have treated for peace. Listen!
CHORUS. Listen to you? No, no, you are about to die, we will annihilate
you with our stones.
DICAEOPOLIS. But first of all, listen. Stop, my friends.
CHORUS. I will hear nothing; do not address me; I hate you more than I do
Cleon,[197] whom one day I shall flay to make sandals for the Knights.
Listen to your long speeches, after you have treated with the Laconians!
No, I will punish you.
