Hermes.
Then look how the reconciled towns chat pleasantly together, how they laugh; and yet they are all cruelly mishandled; their wounds are bleeding still.
Trygæus.
But let us also scan the mien of the spectators; we shall thus find out the trade of each.
Hermes.
Ah! good gods! look at that poor crest-maker, tearing at his hair,[1] and at that pike-maker, who has just broken wind in yon sword-cutler’s face.
Trygæus.
And do you see with what pleasure this sickle-maker is making long noses at the spear-maker?
Hermes.
Now ask the husbandmen to be off.
Trygæus.
Listen, good folk! Let the husbandmen take their farming tools and return to their fields as quick as possible, but without either sword, spear or javelin. All is as quiet as if Peace had been reigning for a century. Come, let everyone go till the earth, singing the Pæan.
Chorus.
Oh, thou, whom men of standing desired and who art good to husbandmen, I have gazed upon thee with delight; and now I go to greet my vines, to caress after so long an absence the fig trees I planted in my youth.
Trygæus.
Friends, let us first adore the goddess, who has delivered us from crests and Gorgons;[2] then let us hurry to our farms, having first bought a nice little piece of salt fish to eat in the fields.
