Chorus of Old Men.
And if I batter you to pieces with my fists, what will you do?
Chorus of Women.
I will tear out your lungs and entrails with my teeth.
Chorus of Old Men.
Oh! what a clever poet is Euripides! how well he says that woman is the most shameless of animals.
Chorus of Women.
Let’s pick up our water-jars again, Rhodippé.
Chorus of Old Men.
Ah! accursed harlot, what do you mean to do here with your water?
Chorus of Women.
And you, old death-in-life, with your fire? Is it to cremate yourself?
Chorus of Old Men.
I am going to build you a pyre to roast your female friends upon.
Chorus of Women.
And I,—I am going to put out your fire.
Chorus of Old Men.
You put out my fire—you!
Chorus of Women.
Yes, you shall soon see.
Chorus of Old Men.
I don’t know what prevents me from roasting you with this torch.
