calumnies instead
of buds and in autumn it strews the ground with bucklers in place of
leaves.(1)

Far away in the regions of darkness, where no ray of light ever enters,
there is a country, where men sit at the table of the heroes and dwell
with them always--save always in the evening. Should any mortal meet the
hero Orestes at night, he would soon be stripped and covered with blows
from head to foot.(2)

f(1) Cleonymous is a standing butt of Aristophanes' wit, both as an
informer and a notorious poltroon.

f(2) In allusion to the cave of the bandit Orestes; the poet terms him a
hero only because of his heroic name Orestes.

PROMETHEUS Ah! by the gods! if only Zeus does not espy me! Where is
Pisthetaerus?

PISTHETAERUS Ha! what is this? A masked man!

PROMETHEUS Can you see any god behind me?

PISTHETAERUS No, none. But who are you, pray?

PROMETHEUS What's the time, please?

PISTHETAERUS The time? Why, it's past noon. Who are you?

PROMETHEUS Is it the fall of day? Is it no later than that?(1)

f(1) Prometheus wants night to come and so reduce the risk of being seen
from Olympus.

PISTHETAERUS Oh! 'pon my word! but you grow tiresome.

PROMETHEUS What is Zeus doing? Is he dispersing the clouds or gathering
them?(1)

f(1) The clouds would prevent Zeus seeing what was happening below him.

PISTHETAERUS Take care, lest I lose all patience.

PROMETHEUS Come, I will raise my mask.

PISTHETAERUS Ah! my dear Prometheus!

PROMETHEUS Stop! stop! speak lower!

PISTHETAERUS Why, what's the matter, Prometheus?

PROMETHEUS H'sh! h'sh! Don't call me by my name; you will be my ruin, if
Zeus should see me here. But, if you want me to tell you how things
are going in heaven, take this umbrella and shield me, so that the gods
don't see me.

PISTHETAERUS I can recognize Prometheus in this cunning trick. Come,
quick then, and fear nothing; speak on.

PROMETHEUS Then listen.

PISTHETAERUS I am listening, proceed!

PROMETHEUS It's all over with Zeus.

PISTHETAERUS Ah! and since when, pray?

PROMETHEUS Since you founded this city in the air. There is not a man
who now sacrifices to the gods; the smoke of the victims no longer
reaches us. Not the smallest offering comes! We fast as though it were
the festival of Demeter.(1) The barbarian gods, who are dying of hunger,
are bawling like Illyrians(2) and threaten to make an armed descent upon
Zeus, if he does not open markets where joints of the victims