Trygæus.
How, you cursed animal, could the wolf ever unite with the sheep?
Hierocles.
As long as the wood-bug gives off a fetid odour, when it flies; as long as the noisy bitch is forced by nature to litter blind pups, so long shall peace be forbidden.
Trygæus.
Then what should be done? Not to stop the War would be to leave it to the decision of chance which of the two people should suffer the most, whereas by uniting under a treaty, we share the empire of Greece.
Hierocles.
You will never make the crab walk straight.
Trygæus.
You shall no longer be fed at the Prytaneum; the war done, oracles are not wanted.
Hierocles.
You will never smooth the rough spikes of the hedgehog.
Trygæus.
Will you never stop fooling the Athenians?
Hierocles.
What oracle ordered you to burn these joints of mutton in honour of the gods?
Trygæus.
This grand oracle of Homer’s: “Thus vanished the dark war-clouds and we offered a sacrifice to new-born Peace. When the flame had consumed the thighs of the victim and its inwards had appeased our hunger, we poured out the libations of wine.” ’Twas I who arranged the sacred rites, but none offered the shining cup to the diviner.[1]
- ↑ Of course this is not a bona fide quotation, but a whimsical adaptation of various Homeric verses; the last is a coinage of his own, and means, that he is to have no part, either in the flesh of the victim or in the wine of the libations.
