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Works by Aristophanes
Pages of Acharnians

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kindness by giving me the little Mysian hat, that goes so well with
these tatters. I must to-day have the look of a beggar; "be what I am,
but not appear to be"; the audience will know well who I am, but the
Chorus will be fools enough not to, and I shall dupe them with my
subtle phrases.
I will give you the hat; I love the clever tricks of an
ingenious brain like yours.
Rest happy, and may it befall Telephus as I wish. Ah, I already
feel myself filled with quibbles. But I must have a beggar's staff.
EURIPIDES (handing him a staff)
Here you are, and now get away from this porch.
Oh, my soul! You see how you are driven from this house, when I
still need so many accessories. But let us be pressing, obstinate,
importunate. Euripides, give me a little basket with a lamp lighted
Whatever do you want such a thing as that for?
I do not need it, but I want it all the same.
EURIPIDES (handing him a basket)
You importune me; get out of here!
Alas! may the gods grant you a destiny as brilliant as your
Leave me in peace.
Oh, just a little broken cup.
EURIPIDES (handing him a cup)
Take it and go and hang yourself. (to himself) What a tiresome
Ah! you do not know all the pain you cause me. Dear, good
Euripides, just a little pot with a sponge for a stopper.
Miserable man! You are stealing a whole tragedy. Here, take it and
be off.
(He hands DICAEOPOLIS a pot.)
I am going, but, great gods! I need one thing more; unless I
have it, am a dead man. Hearken, my little Euripides, only give me
this and I go, never to return. For pity's sake, do give me a few
small herbs for my basket.
You wish to ruin me then. Here, take what you want; but it is
all over with my plays!
(He hands him some herbs.)
I won't ask another thing; I'm going. I am too importunate and
forget that I rouse against me the hate of kings. (He starts to leave,
then returns quickly)
Ah! wretch that I am! I am lost! I have
forgotten one thing, without which all the rest is as nothing.
Euripides, my excellent Euripides, my dear little Euripides, may I die
if I ask you again for the smallest present; only one, the last,
absolutely the last; give me some of the chervil your mother left
you in her will.
Insolent hound! Slave, lock the door! (The eccyclema turns back

Oh, my soul! we must go away without the chervil. Art thou

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