Curculio, or The Forgery (70-110)

If you salute the Deities, towards the right[*] I think; now this is this altar of Venus before their door.

I have already vowed to bring me[*] an early breakfast for my Venus[*].

What? Will you then be giving up yourself as a breakfast to Venus?

Myself, and you, and all of these.

Then you would have Venus to be sick outright.

Here, boy, give me the bowl.

What are you going to do?

You’ll know directly. An old hag is in the habit of sleeping here, as the keeper of the door; the name of the Procuress is Much-bibber and Neat-bibber.

Just as you would speak of a flagon, in which Chian wine[*] is wont to be.

What need is there of words? She is a most vinous soul;

and the very moment that I’ve sprinkled this door with the wine, she knows by the smell that I’m here, and opens it forthwith.

Is it for her the bowl is brought with the wine?

Unless you object.

I’ faith, I do object; for I’d rather have it broken about him who has brought it. I fancied it was brought for ourselves.

Why don’t you hold your tongue?

If any’s left after her, it will be enough for ourselves.

What river is it, pray, that the sea does not receive?

Follow me this way, Palinurus, to the door; do you be obedient to me.

I’ll do so.

Come, drink, you joyous door, quaff on, readily prove propitious unto me.

Door, would you like some olives or a tit-bit, or some capers?

Arouse and send out here to me your portress.

You’re spilling the wine; what matter is it that possesses you? (Takes hold of his arm.)

Let me alone. Don’t you see? This most joyous door is opening; does the hinge make a bit of creaking? ’Tis a charming one.

Why don’t you then give it a kiss?

Hold your tongue; let’s keep back the light and our noise.

Be it so.

The savour of aged wine has reached my nostrils; the love of it has brought me in my eagerness hither in the dark; wherever it is, it’s near me. O capital, I’ve found it. (Stooping, and smelling at the bowl.) Hail to you, my soul, Joy of dear Bacchus;

how enamoured am I of your old age. For in comparison with yours, the odour of all unguents were mere bilge-water; you are my myrrh, you my cinnamon, you my rose, you my saffron unguent and my cassia, you are my vine-palm[*] scent. But, where you have been poured, there would I most earnestly hope to be buried.

This old lady’s thirsty;