CHORUS. Virgins, who pour forth the rains, let us move toward Attica, the rich country of Pallas, the home of the brave; let us visit the dear land of Cecrops, where the secret rites[501] are celebrated, where the mysterious sanctuary flies open to the initiate.... What victims are offered there to the deities of heaven! What glorious temples! What statues! What holy prayers to the rulers of Olympus! At every season nothing but sacred festivals, garlanded victims, are to be seen. Then Spring brings round again the joyous feasts of Dionysus, the harmonious contests of the choruses and the serious melodies of the flute. STREPSIADES. By Zeus! Tell me, Socrates, I pray you, who are these women, whose language is so solemn; can they be demigoddesses? SOCRATES. Not at all. They are the Clouds of heaven, great goddesses for the lazy; to them we owe all, thoughts, speeches, trickery, roguery, boasting, lies, sagacity. STREPSIADES. Ah! that was why, as I listened to them, my mind spread out its wings; it burns to babble about trifles, to maintain worthless arguments, to voice its petty reasons, to contradict, to tease some opponent. But are they not going to show themselves? I should like to see them, were it possible. SOCRATES. Well, look this way in the direction of Parnes;[502] I already see those who are slowly descending. STREPSIADES. But where, where? Show them to me. SOCRATES. They are advancing in a throng, following an oblique path across the dales and thickets. STREPSIADES. 'Tis strange! I can see nothing. SOCRATES. There, close to the entrance. STREPSIADES. Hardly, if at all, can I distinguish them. SOCRATES. You _must_ see them clearly now, unless your eyes are filled with gum as thick as pumpkins. STREPSIADES. Aye, undoubtedly! Oh! the venerable goddesses! Why, they fill up the entire stage. SOCRATES. And you did not know, you never suspected, that they were goddesses? STREPSIADES. No, indeed; methought the Clouds were only fog, dew and vapour. SOCRATES. But what you certainly do not know is that they are the support of a crowd of quacks, both the diviners, who were sent to Thurium,[503] the notorious physicians, the well-combed fops, who load their fingers with rings down to the nails, and the baggarts, who write dithyrambic verses, all these are idlers whom the Clouds provide a living for, because they sing them in their verses. STREPSIADES. 'Tis then for this that they praise "the rapid flight of the moist clouds, which veil the brightness of day" and "the waving locks of the hundred-headed Typho" and "the impetuous tempests, which float through the heavens, like birds of prey with aerial wings, loaded with mists" and "the rains, the dew, which the clouds outpour."[504] As a reward for these fine phrases they bolt well-grown, tasty mullet and delicate thrushes. SOCRATES. Yes, thanks to these. And is it not right and meet?