Parodos
[Lyric-Scene 1]
. . . to the swan of Delos, to Leto the mother of the quails, and to Artemis, the goldfinch . . .
Pisthetaerus
It's no longer Artemis Colaenis, but Artemis the goldfinch.
Priest
. . . to Bacchus, the finch and Cybele, the ostrich and mother of the gods and mankind. . .
Pisthetaerus
Oh! sovereign ostrich Cybele, mother of Cleocritus!
Priest
. . . to grant health and safety to the Nephelococcygians as well as to the dwellers in Chios . . .
Pisthetaerus
The dwellers in Chios! Ah! I am delighted they should be thus mentioned on all occasions.
880
Priest
. . . to the heroes, the birds, to the sons of heroes, to the porphyrion, the pelican, the spoon-bill, the redbreast, the grouse, the peacock, the horned-owl, the teal, the bittern, the heron, the stormy petrel, the fig-pecker, the titmouse . . .
Pisthetaerus
Stop! stop! you drive me crazy with your endless list. Why, wretch,
to what sacred feast are you inviting the vultures and the sea-eagles? Don't you see that a single kite could easily carry off the lot at once? Begone, you and your fillets and all; I shall know how to complete the sacrifice by myself.
890
Chorus
It is imperative that I sing another sacred chant for the rite of the lustral water, and that I invoke
895
the immortals, or at least one of them, provided always that you have some suitable food to offer him; from what I see here, in the shape of gifts, there is naught whatever but horn and hair.
900
Pisthetaerus
Let us address our sacrifices and our prayers to the winged gods.
[Lyric-Scene]
Oh, Muse! celebrate happy Nephelococcygia in your hymns.
Pisthetaerus
What have we here? Where did you come from, tell me? Who are you?
Poet
I am he whose language is sweeter than honey, the zealous slave of the Muses,
Pisthetaerus
You a slave! and yet you wear your hair long?
Poet
No, but the fact is all we poets are the assiduous slaves of the Muses, according to Homer.
Pisthetaerus
In truth your little cloak is quite holy too through zeal! But, poet, what ill wind drove you here?
915
Poet
I have composed verses in honor of your Nephelococcygia, a host of splendid dithyrambs and parthenia worthy of Simonides himself.
Pisthetaerus
And when did you compose them? How long since?
920
Poet
Oh! 'tis long, aye, very long, that I have sung in honor of this city.
Pisthetaerus
But I am only celebrating its foundation with this sacrifice; I have only just named it, as is done with little babies.
Poet
Just as the chargers fly with the speed of the wind, so does the voice of the Muses take its flight. Oh! thou noble founder of the town of Aetna thou, whose name recalls the holy sacrifices,
make us such gift as thy generous heart shall suggest.
He puts out his hand.
930
Pisthetaerus
He will drive us silly if we do not get rid of him by some present.
To the Priest's acolyte. Here! you, who have a fur as well as your tunic, take it off and give it to this clever poet. Come,
take this fur; you look to me to be shivering with cold.
935
Poet
My Muse will gladly accept this gift; but engrave these verses of Pindar's on your mind.
Pisthetaerus
Oh! what a pest! It's impossible then to get rid of him!
940
Poet
Straton wanders among the Scythian nomads, but has no linen garment. He is sad at only wearing an animal's pelt and no tunic.
