Lysistrata.
And you?
Myrrhiné.
Yes, I agree with the others; I too would sooner go through the fire.
Lysistrata.
Oh, wanton, vicious sex! the poets have done well to make tragedies upon us; we are good for nothing then but love and lewdness![1] But you, my dear, you from hardy Sparta, if you join me, all may yet be well; help me, second me, I conjure you.
Lampito.
’Tis a hard thing, by the two goddesses[2] it is! for a woman to sleep alone without ever a standing weapon in her bed. But there, Peace must come first.
Lysistrata.
Oh, my dear, my dearest, best friend, you are the only one deserving the name of woman!
Calonicé.
But if—which the gods forbid—we do refrain altogether from what you say, should we get peace any sooner?
Lysistrata.
Of course we should, by the goddesses twain! We need only sit indoors with painted cheeks, and meet our mates lightly clad in transparent gowns of Amorgos[3] silk, and
- ↑ In the original “we are nothing but Poseidon and a boat”; the allusion is to a play of Sophocles, now lost, but familiar to Aristophanes’ audience, entitled ‘Tyro,’ in which the heroine, Tyro, appears with Poseidon, the sea-god, at the beginning of the tragedy, and at the close with the two boys she had had by him, whom she exposes in an open boat.
- ↑ “By the two goddesses,”—a woman’s oath, which recurs constantly in this play; the two goddesses are always Demeter and Proserpine.
- ↑ One of the Cyclades, between Naxos and Cos, celebrated, like the latter, for its manufacture of fine, almost transparent silks, worn in Greece, and later at Rome, by women of loose character.
