Why does the old man not show himself before the door? why does he not answer? Has he lost his shoes? has he stubbed his toe in the dark and thus got a swollen ankle? Perhaps he has a tumour in his groin. He was the hardest of us all; he alone _never_ allowed himself to be moved. If anyone tried to move him, he would lower his head, saying, "You might just as well try to boil a stone." But I bethink me, an accused ma escaped us yesterday through his false pretence that he loved Athens and had been the first to unfold the Samian plot.[45] Perhaps his acquittal has so distressed Philocleon that he is abed with fever--he is quite capable of such a thing.--Friend, arise, do not thus vex your heart, but forget your wrath. Today we have to judge a man made wealthy by treason, one of those who set Thrace free;[46] we have to prepare him a funeral urn ... so march on, my boy, get a-going. BOY. Father, would you give me something if I asked for it? CHORUS. Assuredly, my child, but tell me what nice thing do you want me to buy you? A set of knuckle-bones, I suppose. BOY. No, dad, I prefer figs; they are better. CHORUS. No, by Zeus! even if you were to hang yourself with vexation. BOY. Well then, I will lead you no father. CHORUS. With my small pay, I am obliged to buy bread, wood, stew; and now you ask me for figs! BOY. But, father, if the Archon[47] should not form a court to-day, how are we to buy our dinner? Have you some good hope to offer us or merely "Hellé's sacred waves"?[48] CHORUS. Alas! alas! I have not a notion how we shall dine. BOY. Oh! my poor mother! why did you let me see this day? CHORUS. Oh! my little wallet! you seem like to be a mere useless ornament! BOY. 'Tis our destiny to groan. PHILOCLEON.[49] My friends, I have long been pining away while listening to you from my window, but I absolutely know not what do do. I am detained here, because I have long wanted to go with you to the law court and do all the harm I can. Oh! Zeus! cause the peals of they thunder to roll, change me quickly into smoke or make me into a Proxenides, a perfect braggart, like the son of Sellus. Oh, King of Heaven! hesitate not to grant me this favour, pity my misfortune or else may thy dazzling lightning instantly reduce me to ashes; then carry me hence, and may thy breath hurl me into some burning pickle[50] or turn me into one of the stones on which the votes are counted. CHORUS. Who is it detains you and shuts you in? Speak, for you are talking to friends. PHILOCLEON. 'Tis my son. But no bawling, he is there in front asleep; lower your voice. CHORUS. But, poor fellow, what is his aim? what is his object? PHILOCLEON. My friends, he will not have me judge nor do anyone any ill, but he wants me to stay at home and enjoy myself, and I will not. CHORUS. This wretch, this Demolochocleon[51] dares to say such odious things, just because you tell the truth about our navy! PHILOCLEON. He would not have dared, had he not been a conspirator.