Chorus of Old Men.
That dearest darling? no, no, that hussy, say I! Zeus, thou god of the skies, canst not let loose a hurricane, to sweep them all up into the air, and whirl ’em round, then drop ’em down crash! and impale them on the point of his weapon!
A Herald.
Say, where shall I find the Senate and the Prytanes? I am bearer of despatches.
Magistrate.
But are you a man or a Priapus, pray?[1]
Herald.
Oh! but he’s mighty simple. I am a herald, of course, I swear I am, and I come from Sparta about making peace.
Magistrate.
But look, you are hiding a lance under your clothes, surely.
Herald.
No, nothing of the sort.
Magistrate.
Then why do you turn away like that, and hold your cloak out from your body? Have you gotten swellings in the groin with your journey?
Herald.
By the twin brethren! the man’s an old maniac.
Magistrate.
Ah, ha! my fine lad, why I can see it standing, oh fie!
- ↑ The god of gardens—and of lubricity; represented by a grotesque figure with an enormous penis.
