f(1) Boeotia separated Attica from Phocis.
EPOPS By earth! by snares! by network!(1) I never heard of anything more cleverly conceived; and, if the other birds approve, I am going to build the city along with you.
f(1) He swears by the powers that are to him dreadful.
PISTHETAERUS Who will explain the matter to them?
EPOPS You must yourself. Before I came they were quite ignorant, but since I have lived with them I have taught them to speak.
PISTHETAERUS But how can they be gathered together?
EPOPS Easily. I will hasten down to the coppice to waken my dear Procne!(1) as soon as they hear our voices, they will come to us hot wing.
f(1) As already stated, according to the legend accepted by Aristophanes, it was Procne who was turned into the nightengale.
PISTHETAERUS My dear bird, lose no time, I beg. Fly at once into the coppice and awaken Procne.
EPOPS Chase off drowsy sleep, dear companion. Let the sacred hymn gush from thy divine throat in melodious strains; roll forth in soft cadence your refreshing melodies to bewail the fate of Itys,(1) which has been the cause of so many tears to us both. Your pure notes rise through the thick leaves of the yew-tree right up to the throne of Zeus, where Phoebus listens to you, Phoebus with his golden hair. And his ivory lyre responds to your plaintive accents; he gathers the choir of the gods and from their immortal lips rushes a sacred chant of blessed voices. (THE FLUTE IS PLAYED BEHIND THE SCENE.)