Lysistrata – Part II
CALONICE
But won’t the men
March straight against us?
LYSISTRATA
And what if they do?
No threat shall creak our hinges wide, no torch
Shall light a fear in us; we will come out
To Peace alone.
CALONICE
That’s it, by Aphrodite!
As of old let us seem hard and obdurate.
LAMPITO and some go off; the others go up into the Acropolis.
Chorus of OLD MEN enter to attack the captured Acropolis.
Make room, Draces, move ahead; why your shoulder’s chafed, I see,
With lugging uphill these lopped branches of the olive-tree.
How upside-down and wrong-way-round a long life sees things grow.
Ah, Strymodorus, who’d have thought affairs could tangle so?
Cleomenes himself was hurtled out in sore defeat.
His stiff-backed Spartan pride was bent.
Out, stripped of all his arms, he went:
A pigmy cloak that would not stretch
To hide his rump (the draggled wretch),
Six sprouting years of beard, the spilth
Of six years’ filth.
That was a siege! Our men were ranged in lines of seventeen deep
Before the gates, and never left their posts there, even to sleep.
Shall I not smite the rash presumption then of foes like these,
Detested both of all the gods and of Euripides–
Else, may the Marathon-plain not boast my trophied victories!
Ah, now, there’s but a little space
To reach the place!
How these logs bruise my shoulders! further still
Jog up the hill,
And puff the fire inside,
Or just as we reach the top we’ll find it’s died.
Ough, phew!
I choke with the smoke.
Lord Heracles, how acrid-hot
Out of the pot
This mad-dog smoke leaps, worrying me
And biting angrily….
‘Tis Lemnian fire that smokes,
Or else it would not sting my eyelids thus….
Haste, all of us;
Athene invokes our aid.
Laches, now or never the assault must be made!
Ough, phew!
I choke with the smoke. ..
Thanked be the gods! The fire peeps up and crackles as it should.
Now why not first slide off our backs these weary loads of wood
And dip a vine-branch in the brazier till it glows, then straight
Hurl it at the battering-ram against the stubborn gate?
Phew, what a spluttering drench of smoke! Come, now from off my back….
Is there no Samos-general to help me to unpack?
Ah there, that’s over! For the last time now it’s galled my shoulder.
Flare up thine embers, brazier, and dutifully smoulder,
To kindle a brand, that I the first may strike the citadel.
Aid me, Lady Victory, that a triumph-trophy may tell
How we did anciently this insane audacity quell!
Chorus of WOMEN.
What’s that rising yonder? That ruddy glare, that smoky skurry?
O is it something in a blaze? Quick, quick, my comrades, hurry!
Nicodice, helter-skelter!
Or poor Calyce’s in flames
And Cratylla’s stifled in the welter.
O these dreadful old men
And their dark laws of hate!
There, I’m all of a tremble lest I turn out to be too late.
I could scarcely get near to the spring though I rose before dawn,
What with tattling of tongues and rattling of pitchers in one jostling din
With slaves pushing in!….
Still here at last the water’s drawn