Trygæus.
No, for she would neither touch bread nor cake; she is used to licking ambrosia at the table of the gods.
Servant.
Well, we can give her something to lick down here too.[1]
Chorus.
Here is a truly happy old man, as far as I can judge.
Trygæus.
Ah! but what shall I be, when you see me presently dressed for the wedding?
Chorus.
Made young again by love and scented with perfumes, your lot will be one we all shall envy.
Trygæus.
And when I lie beside her and caress her bosoms?
Chorus.
Oh! then you will be happier than those spinning-tops who call Carcinus their father.[2]
Trygæus.
And I well deserve it; have I not bestridden a beetle to save the Greeks, who now, thanks to me, can make love at their ease and sleep peacefully on their farms?
Servant.
The girl has quitted the bath; she is charming from head to foot, both belly and buttocks; the cake is baked and they are kneading the sesame-biscuit;[3] nothing is lacking but the bridegroom’s penis.
