What
further befell on that magic night
When the goddess and I were together
I will tell you more fully when winter is past,
In the warm, sweet summer weather.
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text .
•
note.
•
•
2
The
smug old race, of hypocrites
Is passing away, thank God! now;
The disease of lies is killing it off;
It is sinking beneath the sod now.
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text .
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3
A
new generation is growing apace,
By rouge and sin untarnished,
Whose pleasures and thoughts will be open and free;
It shall hear my tale unvarnished.
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text .
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4
There's
a budding race whom the poet's pride
And goodness yet will capture;
Which will warm itself on the poet's heart,
And his soul of sunny rapture.
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5
My
heart is as chaste and pure as fire,
As kind as the sun's own face is.
The golden chords of my sounding lyre
Were tuned by the noblest Graces.
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6
'Tis
the self-same lyre that in days of old
Was struck by Aristophanes,
A darling of the muses nine,
As the witty poet often is.
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text .
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7
'Tis
the self-same lyre on which he sang
The story of Paisteteros,
Who, wedding with Basileia, rose
To be ranked with royal heroes.
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text .
8
In
the previous chapter I tried—the attempt
Is an open and frankly confest one—
To copy the close of The Birds, which I think
Of my father's plays is the best one.
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text .
9
The
Frogs is capital, too. I am told
They've produced a German translation
On the Berlin stage, and are acting it now
For the royal delectation.
