Trygæus.
Let us pray! Who is here? Are there any good men?[1]
Servant.
Come, give, so that I may sprinkle these. Faith! they are indeed good, brave men.
Trygæus.
You believe so?
Servant.
I am sure, and the proof of it is that we have flooded them with lustral water and they have not budged an inch.[2]
Trygæus.
Come then, to prayers; to prayers, quick!—Oh! Peace, mighty queen, venerated goddess, thou, who presidest over choruses and at nuptials, deign to accept the sacrifices we offer thee.
Servant.
Receive it, greatly honoured mistress, and behave not like the coquettes, who half open the door to entice the gallants, draw back when they are stared at, to return once more if a man passes on. But do not act like this to us.
Trygæus.
No, but like an honest woman, show thyself to thy worshippers, who are worn with regretting thee all these thirteen years. Hush the noise of battle, be a true Lysimacha to us.[3] Put an end to this tittle-tattle, to this idle babble, that set us defying one another. Cause the Greeks once more to taste the pleasant beverage of friend-
