Pen. Sacrifice! that will I, by setting afoot a wholesale slaughter of women ’mid Cithseron’s glens, as they deserve.
Dio. Ye will all be put to flight,—a shameful thing that they with the Bacchic[1] thyrsus should rout your mail-clad warriors.
Pen. I find this stranger a troublesome foe to encounter; doing or suffering he is alike irrepressible.
Dio. Friend, there is still a way to compose this bitterness.
Pen. Say how; am I to serve my own servants?
Dio. I will bring the women hither without weapons.
Pen. Ha! ha! this is some crafty scheme of thine against me.
Dio. What kind of scheme, if by my craft I purpose to save thee?
Pen. You have combined with them to form this plot, that your revels may go on for ever.
Dio. Nay, but this is the very compact I made with the god; be sure of that[2]
Pen. (preparing to start forth.) Bring forth my arms! Not another word from thee!
Dio. Ha! wouldst thou see them seated on the hills?
Pen. Of all things, yes! I would give untold sums for that.
Dio. Why this sudden, strong desire?
Pen. ’Twill be a bitter sight, if I find them drunk with wine.
Dio. And would that be a pleasant sight which will prove bitter to thee?
Pen. Believe me, yes! beneath the fir-trees as I sit in silence.
