THE FROGS. 169

weight, not being much consoled by his master’s
assurance that it was really the donkey that carried
both him and it. “All the same, I feel it on my
shoulders,” said the man. — “ Well,” replied the mas-
ter, “if you say the donkey is no use to you, why
don’t you get down and take a turn at carrying the
donkey ?”’

They had reached by this time the house for which
they were bound. It was that in which Hercules
lived; and Bacchus, who assumed a certain swagger,
as being suitable to his equipment, kicked loudly at
the door. ‘“Who’s that?” cried Hercules from with-

in. “It might have been a centaur kicking.”—“ You
see how afraid of me he is,” said Bacchus in an aside
to his slave. — “ Afraid!” replied Xanthias ; ‘he was

only afraid you were mad.” And indeed Hercules
did seem to think that his visitor was out of his mind.
So queer was his appearance that he could not help
laughing. ‘What do you want?” he said; “what
do you mean by your buskins and your club?”
Bacchus. “ Now, brother, don’t laugh at me; I am
really suffering a great deal. I do want Euripides
so. He is dead, you know, and I have made up my
mind to go and look for him.”
Hercules. “What? down to Hades?”
_ Bac. “Yes, and further too, if need be.”’
Her. “What do you want?” :
Bac. “A good poet. The good poets are dead,
and those who are alive are not good.”