Enter a Megarian with his two little girls.
Meg. Ah, there's the Athenian market! Heaven bless it,
I say; the welcomest sight to a Megarian.
I've looked for it, and longed for it, like a child
For its own mother. You, my daughters dear,
Disastrous offspring of a dismal sire,
List to my words: and let them sink impressed
Upon your empty stomachs; now's the time
That you must seek a livelihood for yourselves. 980
Therefore resolve at once, and answer me;
Will you be sold abroad, or starve at home?
Both. Let us be sold, Papa! Let us be sold!
Meg. I say so too; but who do ye think will purchase
Such useless mischievous commodities?
However, I have a notion of my own,
A true Megarian[1] scheme; I mean to sell ye
Disguised as pigs, with artificial pettitoes.
Here, take them, and put them on. Remember now,
Show yourselves off; do credit to your breeding, 990
Like decent pigs; or else, by Mercury,
If I'm obliged to take you back to Megara,
There you shall starve, far worse than heretofore.
—This pair of masks too—fasten 'em on your faces,
And crawl into the sack there on the ground.
Mind ye—Remember—you must squeak and whine,
And racket about like little roasting pigs.
—And I'll call out for Dicæopolis.
Ho! Dicæopolis, Dicæopolis!
I say, would you please to buy some pigs of mine? 1000
Dic. What's there? a Megarian?
Meg. (sneakingly). Yes—We're come to market.
Dic. How goes it with you?
Meg. We're all like to starve.
Dic. Well, liking is everything. If you have your liking,
That's all in all: the likeness is a good one,
A pretty likeness! like to starve, you say.
But what else are you doing?
- ↑ The Athenians could not claim the invention of comedy, which belonged to the Megarians: they therefore indemnified themselves by decrying the humour of the Megarians, as low and vulgar.
