TRYGAEUS. May he who would prefer the war, oh Dionysus, be ever drawing barbed arrows out of his elbows.
CHORUS. If there be a citizen, greedy for military rank and honours, who refuses, oh, divine Peace! to restore you to daylight, may he behave as cowardly as Cleonymus on the battlefield.
TRYGAEUS. If a lance-maker or a dealer in shields desires war for the sake of better trade, may he be taken by pirates and eat nothing but barley.
CHORUS. If some ambitious man does not help us, because he wants to become a General, or if a slave is plotting to pass over to the enemy, let his limbs be broken on the wheel, may he be beaten to death with rods! As for us, may Fortune favour us! Io! Paean, Io!
TRYGAEUS. Don't say Paean,[300] but simply, Io.
CHORUS. Very well, then! Io! Io! I'll simply say, Io!
TRYGAEUS. To Hermes, the Graces, Hora, Aphrodité, Eros!
CHORUS. And not to Ares?
TRYGAEUS. No.
CHORUS. Nor doubtless to Enyalius?