WAR. Go and fetch me one from Athens, and hurry, hurry!
TUMULT. Aye, I hasten there; if I return without one, I shall have no cause for laughing. [Exit.
TRYGAEUS. Ah! what is to become of us, wretched mortals that we are? See the danger that threatens if he returns with the pestle, for War will quietly amuse himself with pounding all the towns of Hellas to pieces. Ah! Bacchus! cause this herald of evil to perish on his road!
WAR. Well!
TUMULT (who has returned). Well, what?
WAR. You have brought back nothing?
TUMULT. Alas! the Athenians have lost their pestle—the tanner, who ground Greece to powder.[280]
TRYGAEUS. Oh! Athené, venerable mistress! 'tis well for our city he is dead, and before he could serve us with this hash.
WAR. Then go and seek one at Sparta and have done with it!
TUMULT. Aye, aye, master!