Zeus. We are wasting time, Hermes; the debate should have been in full swing by now. Tell them to sit anyhow, according to taste; we will have an ad hoc meeting another day, and then I shall know how to settle the question of precedence.
Herm. My goodness, what a noise! what low vulgar bawling! listen—‘Hurry up with that carving!’ ‘Do pass the nectar!’ ‘Why no more ambrosia?’ ‘When are those hecatombs coming?’ ‘Here, shares in that victim!’
Zeus. Call them to order, Hermes; this nonsense must cease, before I can give them the order of the day.
Herm. They do not all know Greek; and I haven’t the gift of tongues, to make myself understood by Scythians and Persians and Thracians and Celts. Perhaps I had better hold up my hand and signal for silence.
Zeus. Do.
Herm. Good; they are as quiet as if they were so many teachers of elocution. Now is the time for your speech; see, they are all hanging on your lips.
Zeus. Why—there is something wrong with me—Hermes, my boy —I will be frank with you. You know how confident and impressive I always was as a public speaker?
Herm. I know; I used to be in such a fright; you threatened sometimes to let down your golden cord and heave up earth and sea from their foundations, Gods included.
Zeus. But to-day, my child—it may be this terrible crisis— it may be the size of the audience—there is a vast number of Gods here, isn’t there—anyhow, my thoughts are all mixed, I shiver, my tongue seems tied. What is most absurd of all, my exordium is gone clean out of my head; and I had prepared it on purpose to produce a good impression at the start.
Herm. You have spoiled everything, Zeus. They cannot make out your silence; they are expecting to hear of some terrible disaster, to account for your delay.