Give your orders, direct us, for I swear to work this day without ceasing, until with the help of our levers and our engines we have drawn back into light the greatest of all goddesses, her to whom the olive is so dear.
Trygæus.
Silence! if War should hear your shouts of joy he would bound forth from his retreat in fury.
Chorus.
Such a decree overwhelms us with joy; how different to the edict, which bade us muster with provisions for three days.[1]
Trygæus.
Let us beware lest the cursed Cerberus[2] prevent us even from the nethermost hell from delivering the goddess by his furious howling, just as he did when on earth.
Chorus.
Once we have hold of her, none in the world will be able to take her from us. Huzza! huzza![3]
Trygæus.
You will work my death if you don’t subdue your shouts. War will come running out and trample everything beneath his feet.
Chorus.
Well then! Let him confound, let him trample, let him overturn everything! We cannot help giving vent to our joy.
Trygæus.
Oh! cruel fate! My friends! in the name of the gods, what possesses you? Your dancing will wreck the success of a fine undertaking.
Chorus.
’Tis not I who want to dance; ’tis my legs that bound with delight.
