a thousand dishes; proud of his good fortunes, he has had these feathers
cast before his door to show us how he lives.
f A feasting song in honour of Harmodius, the assassin of Hipparchus
the Tyrant, son of Pisistratus.
Oh, Peace! companion of fair Aphrodite and of the sweet Graces,
how charming are thy features and yet I never knew it! Would that Eros
might join me to thee, Eros, crowned with roses as Zeuxis shows him to
us! Perhaps I seem somewhat old to you, but I am yet able to make you a
threefold offering; despite my age I could plant a long row of vines for you;
then beside these some tender cuttings from the fig; finally a young
vine-stock, loaded with fruit and all around the field olive trees, which
would furnish us with oil, wherewith to anoint us both at the New Moons.
f The celebrated painter, born in Heraclea, a contemporary
List, ye people! As was the custom of your forebears, empty a full
pitcher of wine at the call of the trumpet; he, who first sees the
bottom, shall get a wine-skin as round and plump as Ctesiphon's belly.
Women, children, have you not heard? Faith! do you not heed the
herald? Quick! let the hares boil and roast merrily; keep them
a-turning; withdraw them from the flame; prepare the chaplets;
reach me the skewers that I may spit the thrushes.
I envy you your wisdom and even more your good cheer.
What then will you say when you see the thrushes roasting?
Ah! true indeed!
Slave! stir up the fire.
See, how he knows his business, what a perfect cook! How well
he understands the way to prepare a good dinner!
Ah! woe is me!
Heracles! What have we here?
A most miserable man.
Keep your misery for yourself.
Ah! friend! since you alone are enjoying peace, grant me a part
of your truce, were it but five years.
What has happened to you?
I am ruined; I have lost a pair of steers.
The Boeotians seized them at Phyle.
f A deme and frontier fortress of Attica, near the Boeotian border.
Ah! poor wretch! and yet you have not left off white?
Their dung made my wealth.
What can I do in the matter?
Crying for my beasts has lost me my eyesight. Ah! if you care for poor
Dercetes of Phyle, anoint mine eyes quickly with your balm of peace.
But, my poor fellow, I do not practise medicine.
Come, I adjure you; perhaps I shall recover my steers.
'Tis impossible; away, go and whine to the disciples of Pittalus.
f An Athenian physician of the day.
Grant me but one drop of peace; pour it into this reedlet.Download<<BackPagesMainNext>>