TRYGAEUS. Groanings! ah! by Bacchus! look out for yourself, you cursed squaller, if you start wearying us again with your groanings and hollow bucklers.
SON OF LAMACHUS. Then what should I sing? Tell me what pleases you.
TRYGAEUS. "'Tis thus they feasted on the flesh of oxen," or something similar, as, for instance, "Everything that could tickle the palate was placed on the table."
SON OF LAMACHUS. "'Tis thus they feasted on the flesh of oxen and, tired of warfare, unharnessed their foaming steeds."
TRYGAEUS. That's splendid; tired of warfare, they seat themselves at table; sing, sing to us how they still go on eating after they are satiated.
SON OF LAMACHUS. "The meal over, they girded themselves ..."
TRYGAEUS. With good wine, no doubt?
SON OF LAMACHUS. "... with armour and rushed forth from the towers, and a terrible shout arose."
TRYGAEUS. Get you gone, you little scapegrace, you and your battles! You sing of nothing but warfare. Who is your father then?
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