Nicias, Demosthenes, and Cleon figure as slaves of Demus, literally “the people,” who represents the Athenian as John Bull does the English nation. The only other character is an itinerant sausage–seller. The chorus is composed of knights or horsemen, the richer class of citizens, who were obliged to keep a horse and be prepared for the cavalry service. Demosthenes and Nicias appear in the first scene, and complain bitterly of a certain Paphlagonian; such is the country which the poet has assigned to Cleon, whom their master has lately brought home, partly, according to the Scholiast (Knights, verse 2), for the sake of an untranslateable pun, partly because the Paphlagonians had the reputation of making the worst–conditioned slaves of all who came to the Athenian market. After some quibbling they agree to submit their case to the spectators, and Demosthenes states it as follows:[89]— With reverence to your worships, ’tis our fate To have a testy, cross–grained, bilious, sour Old fellow for our master; one much given To a bean diet;[90] somewhat hard of hearing: Demus his name, sirs, of the parish Pnyx[91] here. Some three weeks back or so, this lord of ours Brought back a scoundrel slave from Paphlagonia, Fresh from the tan–yard, with as foul a mouth As ever yet paid tribute to the gallows. This tanner[92] Paphlagonian (for the fellow Wanted not penetration) bowed and scraped, And fawned, and wagged his ears and tail dog–fashion, And thus soon slipped into the old man’s graces. Occasional douceurs of leather parings, With speeches to this tune, made all his own: “Good sir, the court is up—you’ve judged one cause, ‘Tis time to take the bath; allow me, sir— This cake is excellent—pray sup this broth— You love an obolus, pray take these three— Honour me, sir, with your commands for supper.” Sad times meanwhile for us!—With prying looks Round comes my man of hides, and if he finds us Cooking a little something for our master, Incontinently lays his paw upon it, And modestly, in his own name, presents it. It was but t’other day, these hands had mixed A Spartan pudding for him,—there, at Pylos, Slily and craftily the knave stole on me, Ravished the feast, and to my master bore it. Then none but he, forsooth, must wait at table: (We dare not come in sight) anon the knave Chaunts out his oracles, and when he sees The old man plunged in mysteries to the ears, And scared from his few senses, marks the time, And enters on his tricks. False accusations Now come in troops, and at their heels the whip. Meanwhile the rascal shuffles in among us, And begs of one, browbeats another, cheats A third, and frightens all. “My honest friends, These cords cut deep, you’ll find it—I say nothing— Judge you between your purses and your backs; I could perhaps—“ We take the gentle hint, And give him all; if not, the old man’s foot Plays such a tune upon our hinder parts—