MYRRHINE
By Phosphor, if your hand moves out her way
You'd better have a surgeon somewhere handy.
MAGISTRATE
You too! Where is that archer? Take that woman.
I'll put a stop to these surprise-parties.
STRATYLLIS
By the Tauric Artemis, one inch nearer
My fingers, and it's a bald man that'll be yelling.
MAGISTRATE
Tut tut, what's here? Deserted by my archers....
But surely women never can defeat us;
Close up your ranks, my Scythians. Forward at them.
LYSISTRATA
By the Goddesses, you'll find that here await you
Four companies of most pugnacious women
Armed cap-a-pie from the topmost louring curl
To the lowest angry dimple.
MAGISTRATE
On, Scythians, bind them.
LYSISTRATA
On, gallant allies of our high design,
Vendors of grain-eggs-pulse-and-vegetables,
Ye garlic-tavern-keepers of bakeries,
Strike, batter, knock, hit, slap, and scratch our foes,
Be finely imprudent, say what you think of them....
Enough! retire and do not rob the dead.
MAGISTRATE
How basely did my archer-force come off.
LYSISTRATA
Ah, ha, you thought it was a herd of slaves
You had to tackle, and you didn't guess
The thirst for glory ardent in our blood.
MAGISTRATE
By Apollo, I know well the thirst that heats you—
Especially when a wine-skin's close.