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Dic. (tastes, and spits it out). Don't like it.

Amph. Eh?

Dic. Don't like it—it won't do;

There's an uncommon ugly twang of pitch,

A touch of naval armament about it.

Amph. Well, here's a ten years' growth may suit you better.

Dic. (tastes again). No, neither of them; there is a sort of sourness

Here in this last,—a taste of acid embassies,

And vapid allies turning to vinegar.

Amph. But here's a truce of thirty years entire,

Warranted sound.

Dic. (smacking his lips and then hugging the jar).

O Bacchus and the Bacchanals!

This is your sort! here's nectar and ambrosia!

Here's nothing about providing three days' rations;

It says, 'Do what you please, go where you will;'

I choose it, and adopt it, and embrace it,

For sacrifice, and for my private drinking.

In spite of all the Acharnians, I'm determined

To remove out of the reach of wars and mischief,

And keep the Feast of Bacchus on my farm."—(F.)

He leaves the stage on these festive thoughts intent. The scene changes to the open country in the district of Acharnæ, and here what we must consider as the second act of the play begins. The Chorus of ancient villagers—robust old fellows, "tough as oak, men who have fought at Marathon" in their day—rush in, in chase of the negotiators of this hateful treaty. Moving backwards and forwards with quick step in measured time across the wide orchestra (which, it must