The scene changes to another street in Athens, where the citizens are bringing out all their property, to be carried into the market-place and inventoried for the common stock. Citizen A. dances with delight as he marshals his dilapidated chattels into a mock procession--from the meal-sieve, which he kisses, it looks so pretty with its powdered hair, to the iron pot which looks as black “as if Lysimachus” (some well-known fop of the day, possibly present among the audience) “had been boiling his hair-dye in it.” This patriot, at least, has not much to lose, and hopes he may have something to gain, under these female communists. But his neighbour, who is better off, is in no such hurry. The Athenians, as he remarks, are always making new laws and abrogating them; what has been passed to-day very likely will be repealed to-morrow. Besides, it is a good old national habit to _take_, not to _give_. He will wait a while before he gives in any inventory of his possessions. But at this point comes the city-beadle (an appointment now held, of course, by a lady) with a summons to a banquet provided for all citizens out of the public funds: and amongst the items in the bill of fare is one dish whose name is composed of seventy-seven syllables--which Aristophanes gives us, but which the reader shall be spared. Citizen B. at once delivers it as his opinion that “every man of proper feeling should support the constitution to the utmost of his ability,” and hurries to take his place at the feast. There are some difficulties caused, very naturally, by the new communistic regulations as to providing for the old and ugly women, but with these we need not deal. The piece ends with an invitation, issued by direction of Praxagora through her lady-chamberlain, to the public generally, spectators included, to join the national banquet which is to inaugurate the new order of things. The “tag,” as we should call it in our modern theatrical slang, spoken from what in a Greek theatre was equivalent to the footlights in a London one, by the leader of the Chorus of ladies, neatly requests, on the author’s behalf, the favourable decision of judges and spectators:-- One little hint to our good critics here I humbly offer; to the wise among you, Remember the wise lessons of our play, And choose me for my wisdom. You, again, Who love to laugh, think of our merry jests, And choose me for my wit. And so, an’t please you, I bid you all to choose me for the crown. And let not this be counted to my loss-- That ’twas my lot to be presented first: But judge me by my merits, and your oaths; And do not take those vile coquettes for tutors, Who keep their best smiles for their latest suitors.