for sober, we’re all fools. Take my advice, my fellow-countrymen, our Envoys should always be drunk. We go to Sparta; we enter the city sober; why, we must be picking a quarrel directly. We don’t understand what they say to us, we imagine a lot they don’t say at all, and we report home all wrong, all topsy-turvy. But, look you, to-day it’s quite different; we’re enchanted whatever happens; instead of Clitagoras, they might sing us Telamon,[1] and we should clap our hands just the same. A perjury or two into the bargain, la! what does that matter to merry companions in their cups?
Slave.
But here they are back again! Will you begone, you loafing scoundrels.
Market-Lounger.
Ah ha! here’s the company coming out already.
A Laconian.
My dear, sweet friend, come, take your flute in hand; I would fain dance and sing my best in honour of the Athenians and our noble selves.
An Athenian.
Yes, take your flute, i’ the gods’ name. What a delight to see him dance!
Chorus of Laconians.
Oh Mnemosyné! inspire these men, inspire my muse who knows our exploits and those of the Athenians. With what a godlike ardour did they swoop down at Artemisium[2] on the ships of the Medes! What a glorious victory was that! For the soldiers of Leonidas,[3] they were like fierce wild-boars whetting their tushes. The sweat ran down their faces, and drenched all their limbs, for verily the
