. . . to the heroes, the birds, to the sons of heroes, to the porphyrion, the pelican, the spoon-bill, the redbreast, the grouse, the peacock, the horned-owl, the teal, the bittern, the heron, the stormy petrel, the fig-pecker, the titmouse . . . Pisthetaerus Stop! stop! you drive me crazy with your endless list. Why, wretch, to what sacred feast are you inviting the vultures and the sea-eagles? Don't you see that a single kite could easily carry off the lot at once? Begone, you and your fillets and all; I shall know how to complete the sacrifice by myself. The Priest departs. Chorus Singing. It is imperative that I sing another sacred chant for the rite of the lustral water, and that I invoke the immortals, or at least one of them, provided always that you have some suitable food to offer him; from what I see here, in the shape of gifts, there is naught whatever but horn and hair. Pisthetaerus Let us address our sacrifices and our prayers to the winged gods. A Poet enters. Poet Oh, Muse! celebrate happy Nephelococcygia in your hymns. Pisthetaerus What have we here? Where did you come from, tell me? Who are you? Poet I am he whose language is sweeter than honey, the zealous slave of the Muses, as Homer has it. Pisthetaerus You a slave! and yet you wear your hair long? Poet No, but the fact is all we poets are the assiduous slaves of the Muses, according to Homer. Pisthetaerus In truth your little cloak is quite holy too through zeal! But, poet, what ill wind drove you here? Poet I have composed verses in honor of your Nephelococcygia, a host of splendid dithyrambs and parthenia worthy of Simonides himself. Pisthetaerus And when did you compose them? How long since? Poet Oh! 'tis long, aye, very long, that I have sung in honor of this city. Pisthetaerus But I am only celebrating its foundation with this sacrifice; I have only just named it, as is done with little babies. Poet Just as the chargers fly with the speed of the wind, so does the voice of the Muses take its flight. Oh! thou noble founder of the town of Aetna thou, whose name recalls the holy sacrifices, make us such gift as thy generous heart shall suggest. He puts out his hand. Pisthetaerus He will drive us silly if we do not get rid of him by some present. 
 To the Priest's acolyte. Here! you, who have a fur as well as your tunic, take it off and give it to this clever poet. Come, take this fur; you look to me to be shivering with cold. Poet My Muse will gladly accept this gift; but engrave these verses of Pindar's on your mind. Pisthetaerus Oh! what a pest! It's impossible then to get rid of him! Poet Straton wanders among the Scythian nomads, but has no linen garment. He is sad at only wearing an animal's pelt and no tunic. Do you get what I mean? Pisthetaerus I understand that you want me to offer you a tunic. Hi! you 
 To the acolyte. take off yours; we must help the poet. . . . Come, you, take it and get out. Poet I am going, and these are the verses that I address to this city: Phoebus of the golden throne, celebrate this shivery, freezing city; I have travelled through fruitful and snow-covered plains. Tralala! Tralala! He departs. Pisthetaerus What are you chanting us about frosts? Thanks to the tunic, you no longer fear them. Ah! by Zeus! I could not have believed this cursed fellow could so soon have learnt the way to our city. To a slave. Come, take the lustral water and circle the altar. Let all keep silence!