By Phoebe, if you touch her with one finger, you'd better call
quick for a surgeon!
(The third Scythian defecates in terror.)
What's that? Where's the officer? (To the fourth Scythian) Lay
hold of her. Oh! but I'm going to stop your foolishness for you all
By the Tauric Artemis, if you go near her, I'll pull out your
hair, scream as you like.
(The fourth Scythian defecates in terror.)
Ah! miserable man that I am! My own officers desert me. What ho!
are we to let ourselves be bested by a mob of women? Ho! Scythians
mine, close up your ranks, and forward!
By the holy goddesses! you'll have to make acquaintance with
four companies of women, ready for the fray and well armed to boot.
Forward, Scythians, and bind them!
(The Scythians advance reluctantly.)