Informer: Oh! oh! oh!
Pisthetaerus: Take your flight, clear off, you miserable cur, or you will soon see what comes of quibbling and lying. Come, let us gather up our wings and withdraw.
Chorus: In my ethereal flights I have seen many things new and strange and wondrous beyond belief. There is a tree called Cleonymus belonging to an unknown species; it has no heart, is good for nothing and is as tall as it is cowardly. In springtime it shoots forth calumnies instead of buds and in autumn it strews the ground with bucklers in place of leaves.
Far away in the regions of darkness, where no ray of light ever enters, there is a country, where men sit at the table of the heroes and dwell with them always—save always in the evening. Should any mortal meet the hero Orestes at night, he would soon be stripped and covered with blows from head to foot.
Prometheus: Ah! by the gods! if only Zeus does not espy me! Where is Pisthetaerus?
Pisthetaerus: Ha! what is this? A masked man!
Prometheus: Can you see any god behind me?
Pisthetaerus: No, none. But who are you, pray?
Prometheus: What’s the time, please?
Pisthetaerus: The time? Why, it’s past noon. Who are you?
Prometheus: Is it the fall of day? Is it no later than that?
Pisthetaerus: Oh! ’pon my word! but you grow tiresome.
Prometheus: What is Zeus doing? Is he dispersing the clouds or gathering them?
Pisthetaerus: Take care, lest I lose all patience.
Prometheus: Come, I will raise my mask.
Pisthetaerus: Ah! my dear Prometheus!
Prometheus: Stop! stop! speak lower!
Pisthetaerus: Why, what’s the matter, Prometheus?
Prometheus: H’sh! h’sh! Don’t call me by my name; you will be my ruin, if Zeus should see me here. But, if you want me to tell you how things are going in heaven, take this umbrella and shield me, so that the gods don’t see me.
Pisthetaerus: I can recognize Prometheus in this cunning trick. Come, quick then, and fear nothing; speak on.
Prometheus: Then listen.
Pisthetaerus: I am listening, proceed!
Prometheus: It’s all over with Zeus.
Pisthetaerus: Ah! and since when, pray?
Prometheus: Since you founded this city in the air. There is not a man who now sacrifices to the gods; the smoke of the victims no longer reaches us. Not the smallest offering comes! We fast as though it were the festival of Demeter. The barbarian gods, who are dying of hunger, are bawling like Illyrians and threaten to make an armed descent upon Zeus, if he does not open markets where joints of the victims are sold.