pot.(1)

f(1) At the rural Dionysia a pot of kitchen vegetables was borne in
the procession along with other emblems.

CHORUS
It is you that we are stoning, you miserable scoundrel.

DICAEOPOLIS
And for what sin, Acharnian Elders, tell me that!

CHORUS
You ask that, you impudent rascal, traitor to your country; you
alone amongst us all have concluded a truce, and you dare to look us
in the face!

DICAEOPOLIS
But you do not know WHY I have treated for peace. Listen!

CHORUS
Listen to you? No, no, you are about to die, we will annihilate
you with our stones.

DICAEOPOLIS
But first of all, listen. Stop, my friends.

CHORUS
I will hear nothing; do not address me; I hate you more than I
do Cleon,(1) whom one day I shall flay to make sandals for the Knights.
Listen to your long speeches, after you have treated with the
Laconians? No, I will punish you.

f(1) Cleon the Demagogue was a currier originally by trade. He was the
sworn foe and particular detestation of the Knights or aristocratic party
generally.

DICAEOPOLIS
Friends, leave the Laconians out of debate and consider only
whether I have not done well to conclude my truce.

CHORUS
Done well! when you have treated with a people who know neither
gods, nor truth, nor faith.

DICAEOPOLIS
We attribute too much to the Laconians; as for myself, I know that
they are not the cause of all our troubles.

CHORUS
Oh, indeed, rascal! You dare to use such language to me and then
expect me to spare you!

DICAEOPOLIS
No, no, they are not the cause of all our troubles, and I who
address you claim to be able to prove that they have much to
complain of in us.

CHORUS
This passes endurance; my heart bounds with fury. Thus you dare to
defend our enemies.

DICAEOPOLIS
Were my head on the block I would uphold what I say and rely on
the approval of the people.

CHORUS
Comrades, let us hurl our stones and dye this fellow purple.

DICAEOPOLIS
What black fire-brand has inflamed your heart! You will not hear
me? You really will not, Acharnians?

CHORUS
No, a thousand times, no.

DICAEOPOLIS
This is a hateful injustice.

CHORUS
May I die, if I listen.

DICAEOPOLIS
Nay, nay! have mercy, have mercy, Acharnians.

CHORUS
You shall die.

DICAEOPOLIS
Well, blood for blood! I will kill your dearest friend. I have
here the hostages of Acharnae;(1) I shall disembowel them.

f(1)