TRUMPET-MAKER. Ha! would you mock me? TRYGAEUS. Well, here's another notion. Pour in lead as I said, add here a dish hung on strings, and you will have a balance for weighing the figs which you give your slaves in the fields. A HELMET-MAKER. Cursed fate! I am ruined. Here are helmets, for which I gave a mina each. What am I to do with them? who will buy them? TRYGAEUS. Go and sell them to the Egyptians; they will do for measuring loosening medicines.[385] A SPEAR-MAKER. Ah! poor helmet-maker, things are indeed in a bad way. TRYGAEUS. That man has no cause for complaint. SPEAR-MAKER. But helmets will be no more used. TRYGAEUS. Let him learn to fit a handle to them and he can sell them for more money.[386] SPEAR-MAKER. Let us be off, comrade. TRYGAEUS. No, I want to buy these spears. SPEAR-MAKER. What will you give? TRYGAEUS. If they could be split in two, I would take them at a drachma per hundred to use as vine-props. SPEAR-MAKER. The insolent dog! Let us go, friend. TRYGAEUS. Ah! here come the guests, children from the table to relieve themselves; I fancy they also want to hum over what they will be singing presently. Hi! child! what do you reckon to sing? Stand there and give me the opening line. THE SON OF LAMACHUS. "Glory to the young warriors...." TRYGAEUS. Oh! leave off about your young warriors, you little wretch; we are at peace and you are an idiot and a rascal. SON OF LAMACHUS. "The skirmish begins, the hollow bucklers clash against each other."[387] TRYGAEUS. Bucklers! Leave me in peace with your bucklers. SON OF LAMACHUS. "And then there came groanings and shouts of victory." 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? SON OF LAMACHUS. My father? TRYGAEUS. Why yes, your father. SON OF LAMACHUS. I am Lamachus' son.