CHORUS. Stay! rub your neck with lard; in this way you will slip between
the fingers of calumny.

SAUSAGE-SELLER. Spoken like a finished master of fence.

CHORUS. Now, bolt down these cloves of garlic.

SAUSAGE-SELLER. Pray, what for?

CHORUS. Well primed with garlic, you will have greater mettle for the
fight. But hurry, hurry, bestir yourself!

SAUSAGE-SELLER. That's just what I am doing.

CHORUS. And, above all, bite your foe, rend him to atoms, tear off his
comb[64] and do not return until you have devoured his wattles. Go! make
your attack with a light heart, avenge me and may Zeus guard you! I burn
to see you return the victor and laden with chaplets of glory. And you,
spectators, enlightened critics of all kinds of poetry, lend an ear to my
anapaests.[65]

CHORUS. Had one of the old authors asked to mount this stage to recite
his verses, he would not have found it hard to persuade me. But our poet
of to-day is likewise worthy of this favour; he shares our hatred, he
dares to tell the truth, he boldly braves both waterspouts and
hurricanes. Many among you, he tells us, have expressed wonder, that he
has not long since had a piece presented in his own name, and have asked
the reason why.[66] This is what he bids us say in reply to your
questions; 'tis not without grounds that he has courted the shade, for,
in his opinion, nothing is more difficult than to cultivate the comic