it! Come then, all together! Heave away, heave! Heave away, heave! Heave away, heave! Heave away, heave! Heave away, heave! All together! (Peace is drawn out of the pit.)
Trygæus.
Oh! venerated goddess, who givest us our grapes, where am I to find the ten-thousand-gallon words[1] wherewith to greet thee? I have none such at home. Oh! hail to thee, Opora,[2] and thou, Theoria![3] How beautiful is thy face! How sweet thy breath! What gentle fragrance comes from thy bosom, gentle as freedom from military duty, as the most dainty perfumes!
Hermes.
Is it then a smell like a soldier’s knapsack?
Chorus.
Oh! hateful soldier! your hideous satchel makes me sick! it stinks like the belching of onions, whereas this lovable deity has the odour of sweet fruits, of festivals, of the Dionysia, of the harmony of flutes, of the comic posts, of the verses of Sophocles, of the phrases of Euripides . . .
Trygæus.
That’s a foul calumny, you wretch! She detests that framer of subtleties and quibbles.
Chorus.
. . . of ivy, of straining-bags for wine, of bleating ewes, of provision-laden women hastening to the kitchen, of the tipsy servant wench, of the upturned wine-jar, and of a whole heap of other good things.
- ↑ A metaphor referring to the abundant vintages that peace would assure.
- ↑ The goddess of fruits.
- ↑ Aristophanes personifies under this name the sacred ceremonies in general which peace would allow to be celebrated with due pomp. Opora and Theoria come on the stage in the wake of Peace, clothed and decked out as courtesans.
