Lysistrata | Page 7

LYSISTRATA
I'll never lie and stare up at the ceiling,
CALONICE
_I'll never lie and stare up at the ceiling,_
LYSISTRATA

Nor like a lion on all fours go kneeling.
CALONICE
_Nor like a lion on all fours go kneeling._
LYSISTRATA
If I keep faith, then bounteous cups be mine.
CALONICE
_If I keep faith, then bounteous cups be mine._
LYSISTRATA
If not, to nauseous water change this wine.
CALONICE _If not, to nauseous water change this wine._
LYSISTRATA
Do you all swear to this?
MYRRHINE
We do, we do.
LYSISTRATA
Then I shall immolate the victim thus. _She drinks._
CALONICE
Here now, share fair, haven't we made a pact? Let's all quaff down that
friendship in our turn.
LAMPITO
Hark, what caterwauling hubbub's that?

LYSISTRATA
As I told you, The women have appropriated the citadel. So, Lampito,
dash off to your own land And raise the rebels there. These will serve
as hostages, While we ourselves take our places in the ranks And drive
the bolts right home.
CALONICE
But won't the men March straight against us?
LYSISTRATA
And what if they do? No threat shall creak our hinges wide, no torch
Shall light a fear in us; we will come out To Peace alone.
CALONICE
That's it, by Aphrodite! As of old let us seem hard and obdurate.
LAMPITO _and some go off; the others go up into the Acropolis._
Chorus of OLD MEN enter to attack the captured Acropolis.
Make room, Draces, move ahead; why your shoulder's chafed, I see,
With lugging uphill these lopped branches of the olive-tree. How
upside-down and wrong-way-round a long life sees things grow. Ah,
Strymodorus, who'd have thought affairs could tangle so?
The women whom at home we fed, Like witless fools, with fostering
bread, Have impiously come to this-- They've stolen the Acropolis,
With bolts and bars our orders flout And shut us out.
Come, Philurgus, bustle thither; lay our faggots on the ground, In neat
stacks beleaguering the insurgents all around; And the vile
conspiratresses, plotters of such mischief dire, Pile and burn them all
together in one vast and righteous pyre: Fling with our own hands
Lycon's wife to fry in the thickest fire. By Demeter, they'll get no brag
while I've a vein to beat! Cleomenes himself was hurtled out in sore

defeat. His stiff-backed Spartan pride was bent. Out, stripped of all his
arms, he went: A pigmy cloak that would not stretch To hide his rump
(the draggled wretch), Six sprouting years of beard, the spilth Of six
years' filth.
That was a siege! Our men were ranged in lines of seventeen deep
Before the gates, and never left their posts there, even to sleep. Shall I
not smite the rash presumption then of foes like these, Detested both of
all the gods and of Euripides-- Else, may the Marathon-plain not boast
my trophied victories!
Ah, now, there's but a little space To reach the place! A deadly climb it
is, a tricky road With all this bumping load: A pack-ass soon would
tire.... How these logs bruise my shoulders! further still Jog up the hill,
And puff the fire inside, Or just as we reach the top we'll find it's died.
Ough, phew! I choke with the smoke.
Lord Heracles, how acrid-hot Out of the pot This mad-dog smoke leaps,
worrying me And biting angrily.... 'Tis Lemnian fire that smokes, Or
else it would not sting my eyelids thus.... Haste, all of us; Athene
invokes our aid. Laches, now or never the assault must be made! Ough,
phew! I choke with the smoke. ..
Thanked be the gods! The fire peeps up and crackles as it should. Now
why not first slide off our backs these weary loads of wood And dip a
vine-branch in the brazier till it glows, then straight Hurl it at the
battering-ram against the stubborn gate? If they refuse to draw the bolts
in immediate compliance, We'll set fire to the wood, and smoke will
strangle their defiance.
Phew, what a spluttering drench of smoke! Come, now from off my
back.... Is there no Samos-general to help me to unpack? Ah there,
that's over! For the last time now it's galled my shoulder. Flare up thine
embers, brazier, and dutifully smoulder, To kindle a brand, that I the
first may strike the citadel. Aid me, Lady Victory, that a
triumph-trophy may tell How we did anciently this insane audacity
quell!

Chorus of WOMEN.
What's that rising yonder? That ruddy glare, that smoky skurry? O is it
something in a blaze? Quick, quick, my comrades, hurry! Nicodice,
helter-skelter! Or poor Calyce's in flames And Cratylla's stifled in the
welter. O these dreadful old men And their dark laws of hate! There,
I'm all of a tremble lest I turn out to be too late.