Trygæus.
Oh! I beseech you! use some other honey; this kind is worth four obols; be careful, oh! be careful of our Attic honey.
War.
Hi! Tumult, you slave there!
Tumult.
What do you want?
War.
Out upon you! You stand there with folded arms. Take this cuff o’ the head for your pains.
Tumult.
Oh! how it stings! Master, have you got garlic in your fist, I wonder?
War.
Run and fetch me a pestle.
Tumult.
But we haven’t got one; ’twas only yesterday we moved.
War.
Go and fetch me one from Athens, and hurry, hurry!
Tumult.
Aye, I hasten there; if I return without one, I shall have no cause for laughing. [Exit.
Trygæus.
Ah! what is to become of us, wretched mortals that we are? See the danger that threatens if he returns with the pestle, for War will quietly amuse himself with pounding all the towns of Hellas to pieces. Ah! Bacchus! cause this herald of evil to perish on his road!
War.
Well!
