Racine: Phaedra

156
ARISTOPHANES
Cleon.—What means—what ground of hope have you—to
dare to speak against me?
Sausage-Seller.—What ! I can speak ! and I can chop
garlic and lard and logic.
Cleon.—Aye ! You're a speaker, I suppose ! I should enjoy
to see you,
Like a pert scullion set to cook—to see your talents fairly
Put to the test, with hot blood-raw disjointed news ar-
riving,
Obliged to hash and season it, and dish it in an instant.
You're like the rest of 'em—the swarm of paltry
weak pretenders.
You've made your pretty speech perhaps, and gained a
little lawsuit
Against a merchant foreigner, by dint of water-drink-
ing,
And lying long awake o' nights, composing and repeat-
ing,
And studying as you walked the streets, and wearing out
the patience
Of all your friends and intimates, with practising beforehand
:
And now you wonder at yourself, elated and delighted
At your own talent for debate— you silly saucy coxcomb.
Sausage- Seller.—What's your own diet? How do you con-
/ trive to keep the city
Passive and hushed—What kind of drink drives ye to
that presumption?
Cleon.—Why mention any man besides, that's capable to
match me
That after a sound hearty meal of tunny-fish and cutlets,
Can quaff my gallon ; and at once, without premedita-
tion.
With slang and jabber overpower the generals at Pylos.
Sausage-Seller.—But I can eat my paunch of pork, my liver
and my haslets,
And scoop the sauce with both my hands ; and with my
dirty fingers
I'll seize old Nicias by the throat, and choke the grand
debaters.