THE FROGS. 171

the vintage, the poorest chatterboxes in the world.
They try one play, and then we see no more of
them. But I know no one who dares venture on
a really fine thing.”
fler. “What do you mean?”
Bac. “Well, something of this kind: —
‘High heaven, residence of Zeus,’
- ‘Time’s viewless foot,’
or
‘A soul that reverenced the oaths of heaven,
A tongue still perjured, from the soul apart.’”

Her. “ And you like that sort of thing?”

Bac. “1am simply crazy for it.”

fer. “T call it abominable rubbish.”

Bac. “Indeed; now if you were to give us your
opinion about dining it might be worth having.
However, I will explain why I have come dressed
up in this fashion like you. I want you to tell me
what friends you stayed with when you went down
after Cerberus, and all about the provision shops,
and the harbours, and the roads, and the springs,
and the inns where there were fewest fleas.”

fer. “ Are you really thinking of going?”

Bac. “Yes; on that point I want to hear nothing
more. But tell me the shortest way down. Mind,
it must not be too hot or too cold.”

Fler. “Well, let me think. Which is the best?
There is a good road by the Rope and Noose. You
hang yourself, you know.”