WAR. Oh! Megara! Megara! how utterly are you going to be ground up! what fine mincemeat[276] are you to be made into!
TRYGAEUS. Alas! alas! what bitter tears there will be among the
Megarians![277]
WAR. Oh, Sicily! you too must perish! Your wretched towns shall be grated like this cheese.[278] Now let us pour some Attic honey[279] into the mortar.
TRYGAEUS. Oh! I beseech you! use some other honey; this kind is worth four obols; be careful, oh! be careful of our Attic honey.
WAR. Hi! Tumult, you slave there!
TUMULT. What do you want?
WAR. Out upon you! You stand there with folded arms. Take this cuff o' the head for your pains.
TUMULT. Oh! how it stings! Master, have you got garlic in your fist, I wonder?
WAR. Run and fetch me a pestle.
TUMULT. But we haven't got one; 'twas only yesterday we moved.