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Mess. The bridesmaid,

With a particular message from the bride,

Wishing to speak a word in private with you.

Dic. Well, what have ye got to say? let's hear it all.

Come—step this way—no, nearer—in a whisper—

Nearer, I say—Come then, now, tell me about it.

O, bless me! what a capital, comical,

Extraordinary string of female reasons

For keeping a young bridegroom safe at home!

Well, we'll indulge her, since she's only a woman;

She's not obliged to serve; bring out the balsam!

Come, where's your little vial?"—(F.)

While Dicæopolis is continuing his culinary preparations for the banquet which is to close the festival—preparations in which the old gentlemen of the Chorus, in spite of their objections to the truce, take a very lively interest—a messenger comes in hot haste to summon Lamachus. The Bœotians are meditating an attack on the frontier, hoping to take the Athenians at disadvantage at this time of national holiday. It is snowing hard; but the orders of the commanders-in-chief are imperative, and Lamachus must go to the front. And at this moment comes another messenger to call Dicæopolis to the banquet, which stays only for him. A long antithetic dialogue follows, pleasant, it must be supposed, to Athenian ears, who delighted in such word-fencing, tiresome to English readers. Lamachus orders out his knapsack; Dicæopolis bids his slave bring his dinner-service. The general, cursing all commanders-in-chief, calls for his plume; the Acharnian for roast pigeons. Lamachus calls for his spear;