Pisthetaerus: Yet another pest! What have you come to do? What’s your plan? What’s the purpose of your journey? Why these splendid buskins?
Meton: I want to survey the plains of the air for you and to parcel them into lots.
Pisthetaerus: In the name of the gods, who are you?
Meton: Who am I? Meton, known throughout Greece and at Colonus.
Pisthetaerus: What are these things?
Meton: Tools for measuring the air. In truth, the spaces in the air have precisely the form of a furnace. With this bent ruler I draw a line from top to bottom; from one of its points I describe a circle with the compass. Do you understand?
Pisthetaerus: Not the very least.
Meton: With the straight ruler I set to work to inscribe a square within this circle; in its centre will be the marketplace, into which all the straight streets will lead, converging to this centre like a star, which, although only orbicular, sends forth its rays in a straight line from all sides.
Pisthetaerus: Meton, you new Thales …
Meton: What d’you want with me?
Pisthetaerus: I want to give you a proof of my friendship. Use your legs.
Meton: Why, what have I to fear?
Pisthetaerus: ’Tis the same here as in Sparta. Strangers are driven away, and blows rain down as thick as hail.
Meton: Is there sedition in your city?
Pisthetaerus: No, certainly not.
Meton: What’s wrong then?
Pisthetaerus: We are agreed to sweep all quacks and impostors far from our borders.
Meton: Then I’m off.
Pisthetaerus: I fear ’tis too late. The thunder growls already. Beats him.
Meton: Oh, woe! oh, woe!
Pisthetaerus: I warned you. Now, be off, and do your surveying somewhere else. Meton takes to his heels.
An inspector: Where are the Proxeni?
Pisthetaerus: Who is this Sardanapalus?
Inspector: I have been appointed by lot to come to Nephelococcygia as inspector.
Pisthetaerus: An inspector! and who sends you here, you rascal?