TRYGAEUS. When you are gathering your vintages you will prize me even better.
CHORUS. E'en from to-day we hail you as the deliverer of mankind.
TRYGAEUS. Wait until you have drunk a beaker of new wine, before you appraise my true merits.
CHORUS. Excepting the gods, there is none greater than yourself, and that will ever be our opinion.
TRYGAEUS. Yea, Trygaeus of Athmonia has deserved well of you, he has freed both husbandman and craftsman from the most cruel ills; he has vanquished Hyperbolus.
CHORUS. Well then, what must we do now?
TRYGAEUS. You must offer pots of green-stuff to the goddess to consecrate her altars.
CHORUS. Pots of green-stuff[354] as we do to poor Hermes—and even he thinks the fare but mean?
TRYGAEUS. What will you offer then? A fatted bull?
CHORUS. Oh, no! I don't want to start bellowing the battle-cry.[355]