Get you gone, you little scapegrace, you and your
battles!
Aristophanes
"'Tis thus they feasted on the flesh of oxen and, tired
of warfare, unharnessed their foaming steeds. "
TRYGAEUS. That's splendid; tired of warfare, they seat themselves at
table; sing, sing to us how they still go on eating after they are
satiated.
SON OF LAMACHUS. "The meal over, they girded themselves . . . "
TRYGAEUS. With good wine, no doubt?
SON OF LAMACHUS. ". . . with armour and rushed forth from the towers, and a
terrible shout arose. "
TRYGAEUS.
Get you gone, you little scapegrace, you and your battles! You
sing of nothing but warfare. Who is your father then?
SON OF LAMACHUS. My father?
TRYGAEUS. Why yes, your father.
SON OF LAMACHUS. I am Lamachus' son.
TRYGAEUS. Oh! oh! I could indeed have sworn, when I was listening to you,
that you were the son of some warrior who dreams of nothing but wounds
and bruises, of some Boulomachus or Clausimachus;[388] go and sing your
plaguey songs to the spearmen. . . .
of warfare, unharnessed their foaming steeds. "
TRYGAEUS. That's splendid; tired of warfare, they seat themselves at
table; sing, sing to us how they still go on eating after they are
satiated.
SON OF LAMACHUS. "The meal over, they girded themselves . . . "
TRYGAEUS. With good wine, no doubt?
SON OF LAMACHUS. ". . . with armour and rushed forth from the towers, and a
terrible shout arose. "
TRYGAEUS.
Get you gone, you little scapegrace, you and your battles! You
sing of nothing but warfare. Who is your father then?
SON OF LAMACHUS. My father?
TRYGAEUS. Why yes, your father.
SON OF LAMACHUS. I am Lamachus' son.
TRYGAEUS. Oh! oh! I could indeed have sworn, when I was listening to you,
that you were the son of some warrior who dreams of nothing but wounds
and bruises, of some Boulomachus or Clausimachus;[388] go and sing your
plaguey songs to the spearmen. . . .
