The Frogs | Page 5

I?
DIO. My priest, protect me, and we'll sup together.

XAN. King Heracles, we're done for.
DIO. O, forbear, Good fellow, call me anything but that.
XAN. Well then, Dionysus.
DIO. O, that's worse again.
XAN. (To the Spectre.) Aye, go thy way. O master, here, come here.
DIO. O, what's up now?
XAN. Take courage; all's serene. And, like Hegelochus, we now may
say "Out of the storm there comes a new fine wether." Empusa's gone.
DIO. Swear it.
XAN. By Zeus she is.
DIO. Swear it again.
XAN. By Zeus.
DIO. Again
XAN. By Zeus. O dear, O dear, how pale I grew to see her, But he,
from fright has yellowed me all over.
DIO. Ah me, whence fall these evils on my head? Who is the god to
blame for my destruction? Air, Zeus's chamber, or the Foot of Time?
(A flute is played behind the scenes.)
DIO. Hist!
XAN. What's the matter.
DIO. Didn't you hear it?

XAN. What?
DIO. The breath of flutes.
XAN. Aye, and a whiff of torches Breathed o'er me too; a very mystic
whiff.
DIO. Then crouch we down, and mark what's going on.
CHORUS. (In the distance.) O Iacchus! O Iacchus! O Iacchus!
XAN. I have it, master: 'tis those blessed Mystics, Of whom he told us,
sporting hereabouts. They sing the Iacchus which Diagoras made.
DIO. I think so too: we had better both keep quiet And so find out
exactly what it is.
(The calling forth of Iacchus.)
CHOR.
O Iacchus! power excelling, here in stately temple dwelling, O Iacchus!
O Iacchus! Come to tread this verdant level, Come to dance in mystic
revel, Come whilst round thy forehead hurtles Many a wreath of
fruitful myrtles, Come with wild and saucy paces Mingling in our
joyous dance, Pure and holy, which embraces all the charms of all the
Graces When the mystic choirs advance.
XAN. Holy and sacred queen, Demeter's daughter, O, what a jolly
whiff of pork breathed o'er me!
DIO. Hist! and perchance you'll get some tripe yourself.
(The welcome to Iacchus.)
CHOR. Come, arise, from sleep awaking, come the fiery torches
shaking, O Iacchus! O Iacchus! Morning Star that shinest nightly. Lo,
the mead is blazing brightly, Age forgets its years and sadness, Aged
knees curvet for gladness, Lift thy flashing torches o'er us, Marshal all

thy blameless train, Lead, O lead the way before us; lead the lovely
youthful Chorus To the marshy flowery plain.
(The warning-off of the profane.)
All evil thoughts and profane be still: far hence, far hence from our
choirs depart, Who knows not well what the Mystics tell, or is not holy
and pure of heart; Who ne'er has the noble revelry learned, or danced
the dance of the Muses high; Or shared in the Bacchic rites which old
bull-eating Cratinus's words supply; Who vulgar coarse buffoonery
loves, though all untimely the jests they make; Or lives not easy and
kind with all, or kindling faction forbears to slake, But fans the fire,
from a base desire some pitiful gain for himself to reap; Or takes, in
office, his gifts and bribes, while the city is tossed on the stormy deep;
Who fort or fleet to the foe betrays; or, a vile Thorycion, ships away
Forbidden stores from Aegina's shores, to Epidaurus across the Bay
Transmitting oarpads and sails and tar, that curst collector of five per
cents; The knave who tries to procure supplies for the use of the
enemy's armaments; The Cyclian singer who dares befoul the Lady
Hecate's wayside shrine; The public speaker who once lampooned in
our Bacchic feast, would, with heart malign, Keep nibbling away the
Comedians' pay;--to these I utter my warning cry, I charge them once, I
charge them twice, I charge them thrice, that they draw not nigh To the
sacred dance of the Mystic choir. But YE, my comrades, awake the
song, The night-long revels of joy and mirth which ever of right to our
feast belong.
(The start of the procession.)
Advance, true hearts, advance! On to the gladsome bowers, On to the
sward, with flowers Embosomed bright! March on with jest, and jeer,
and dance, Full well ye've supped to-night.
(The processional hymn to Persephone.)
March, chanting loud your lays, Your hearts and voices raising, The
Saviour goddess praising Who vows she'll still Our city save to endless
days, Whate'er Thorycion's will.

Break off the measure, and change the time; and now with chanting and
hymns adorn Demeter, goddess mighty and high, the harvest-queen, the
giver of corn.
(The processional hymn to Demeter.)
O Lady, over our rites presiding, Preserve and succour thy choral
throng, And grant us all, in thy help confiding, To dance and revel the
whole day long; AND MUCH in earnest, and much in jest, Worthy thy