"Æac. (to Bac.) Come, you—put down your bundles, and make ready.
And mind—let me hear no lies.
Bac. I'll tell you what—
I'd advise people not to torture me;
I give you notice—I'm a deity;
So mind now—you'll have nobody to blame
But your own self.
Æac. What's that you're saying there?
Bac. Why, that I'm Bacchus, Jupiter's own son;
That fellow there's a slave (pointing to Xanthias).
Æac. (to Xanthias). Do you hear?
Xan. I hear him:
A reason the more to give him a good beating;
If he's immortal, he need never mind it."—(F.)
Æacus proceeds to test their divinity, by administering a lash to each of them in turn; but they endure the ordeal so successfully, that at last he gives it up in despair.
"By the Holy Goddess, I'm completely puzzled!
I must take you before Proserpine and Pluto—
Being gods themselves, they're likeliest to know.
Bac. Why, that's a lucky thought!—I only wish
It had happened to occur before you beat us."—(F.)
There is an interval of choral song, with a political bearing, during which we are to suppose that Bacchus is being entertained at the infernal court, while Xanthias improves his acquaintance with Æacus in the servants' hall, or whatever might be the equivalent in Pluto's establishment. The conversation between the two is highly confidential. "Your master seems quite the gentleman," says Æacus. "Oh! quite," says Xan-
