The result is that you are reaping the fruit of
your laziness. Nobody either sacrifices or wears
wreaths in your honour any longer, except now and
then a man who does it as something incidental to
the games at Olympia; and even in that case he
does not think he is doing anything at all necessary,
but just contributes to the support of an ancient
custom. Little by little, most noble of the gods,
they have ousted you from your high esteem and
are turning you into a Cronus. I will not say how
many times they have robbed your temple already;
some of them, however, have actually laid their

 

hands upon your own person at Olympia, and you,
High-thunderer though you be, were too sluggish to
rouse the dogs or to call in the neighbours that they
might come to your rescue and catch the fellows
while they were still packing up for flight. No,
you noble Giant-killer and Titan-conqueror, you sat
still and let them crop your long locks, holding a
fifteen-foot thunderbolt in your right hand! According to Pausanias (v. 11, 1), the Zeus at Olympia held a Victory in his right hand and a sceptre surmounted by an eagle in his left. This is borne out by late coins (see Gardner, Greek Sculpture, p. 259). The error is odd in so good an observer as Lucian. 
Come, you marvellous ruler, when will you stop
overlooking these things in such a careless way?
When will you punish all this wrong-doing? How
many conflagrations and deluges will be enough to
cope with such overwhelming insolence in the world?