INFORMER. You've hit it, precisely; I must whirl hither and thither like a perfect humming-top.
PISTHETAERUS. I catch the idea. Wait, i' faith, I've got some fine
Corcyraean wings.[341] How do you like them?
INFORMER. Oh! woe is me! Why, 'tis a whip!
PISTHETAERUS. No, no; these are the wings, I tell you, that set the top a-spinning.
INFORMER. Oh! oh! oh!
PISTHETAERUS. Take your flight, clear off, you miserable cur, or you will soon see what comes of quibbling and lying. Come, let us gather up our wings and withdraw.
CHORUS. In my ethereal nights I have seen many things new and strange and wondrous beyond belief. There is a tree called Cleonymus belonging to an unknown species; it has no heart, is good for nothing and is as tall as it is cowardly. In springtime it shoots forth calumnies instead of buds and in autumn it strews the ground with bucklers in place of leaves.[342]
Far away in the regions of darkness, where no ray of light ever enters, there is a country, where men sit at the table of the heroes and dwell with them always—save always in the evening. Should any mortal meet the hero Orestes at night, he would soon be stripped and covered with blows from head to foot.[343]
PROMETHEUS. Ah! by the gods! if only Zeus does not espy me! Where is
Pisthetaerus?
PISTHETAERUS. Ha! what is this? A masked man!