Magistrate.
Forward, Scythians, and bind them!
Lysistrata.
Forward, my gallant companions; march forth, ye vendors of grain and eggs, garlic and vegetables, keepers of taverns and bakeries, wrench and strike and tear; come, a torrent of invective and insult! (They beat the officers.) Enough, enough! now retire, never rob the vanquished!
Magistrate.
Here’s a fine exploit for my officers!
Lysistrata.
Ah, ha! so you thought you had only to do with a set of slave-women! you did not know the ardour that fills the bosom of free-born dames.
Magistrate.
Ardour! yes, by Apollo, ardour enough—especially for the wine-cup!
Chorus of Old Men.
Sir, sir! what use of words? they are of no avail with wild beasts of this sort. Don’t you know how they have just washed us down—and with no very fragrant soap!
Chorus of Women.
What would you have? You should never have laid rash hands on us. If you start afresh, I'll knock your eyes out. My delight is to stay at home as coy as a young maid, without hurting anybody or moving any more than a milestone; but ware the wasps, if you go stirring up the wasps’ nest!
Chorus of Old Men.
Ah! great gods! how get the better of these ferocious creatures? ’tis past all bearing! But come, let us try to find out the reason of the dreadful scourge. With what end
