TRYGAEUS. Get you gone, you little scapegrace, you and your battles! You sing of nothing but warfare. Who is your father then?
SON OF LAMACHUS. My father?
TRYGAEUS. Why yes, your father.
SON OF LAMACHUS. I am Lamachus' son.
TRYGAEUS. Oh! oh! I could indeed have sworn, when I was listening to you, that you were the son of some warrior who dreams of nothing but wounds and bruises, of some Boulomachus or Clausimachus;[388] go and sing your plaguey songs to the spearmen…. Where is the son of Cleonymus? Sing me something before going back to the feast. I am at least certain he will not sing of battles, for his father is far too careful a man.
SON OF CLEONYMUS. "An inhabitant of Saïs is parading with the spotless shield which I regret to say I have thrown into a thicket."[389]
TRYGAEUS. Tell me, you little good-for-nothing, are you singing that for your father?
SON or CLEONYMUS. "But I saved my life."
TRYGAEUS. And dishonoured your family. But let us go in; I am very certain, that being the son of such a father, you will never forget this song of the buckler. You, who remain to the feast, 'tis your duty to devour dish after dish and not to ply empty jaws. Come, put heart into the work and eat with your mouths full. For, believe me, poor friends, white teeth are useless furniture, if they chew nothing.
CHORUS. Never fear; thanks all the same for your good advice.