discerning prediction: 
Winged fame is a bird, as you reckon; you sneeze, and the sign’s as
a bird for conviction;
All tokens are “birds” with you—­sounds, too, and lackeys and donkeys. 
Then must it not follow
That we are to you all as the manifest godhead that speaks in
prophetic Apollo?

A RAINY DAY ON THE FARM

From ‘The Peace’:  Frere’s Translation

How sweet it is to see the new-sown cornfield fresh and even,
With blades just springing from the soil that only ask a shower
from heaven. 
Then, while kindly rains are falling, indolently to rejoice,
Till some worthy neighbor calling, cheers you with his hearty voice. 
Well, with weather such as this, let us hear, Trygaeus tell us
What should you and I be doing?  You’re the king of us good fellows. 
Since it pleases heaven to prosper your endeavors, friend, and mine,
Let us have a merry meeting, with some friendly talk and wine. 
In the vineyard there’s your lout, hoeing in the slop and mud—­
Send the wench and call him out, this weather he can do no good. 
Dame, take down two pints of meal, and do some fritters in your way;
Boil some grain and stir it in, and let us have those figs, I say. 
Send a servant to my house,—­any one that you can spare,—­
Let him fetch a beestings pudding, two gherkins, and the pies of hare: 
There should be four of them in all, if the cat has left them right;
We heard her racketing and tearing round the larder all last night,
Boy, bring three of them to us,—­take the other to my father: 
Cut some myrtle for our garlands, sprigs in flower or blossoms rather. 
Give a shout upon the way to Charinades our neighbor,
To join our drinking bout to-day, since heaven is pleased to bless our
labor.

THE HARVEST

     From ‘The Peace’:  Translation in the Quarterly Review

     Oh, ’tis sweet, when fields are ringing
     With the merry cricket’s singing,
     Oft to mark with curious eye
     If the vine-tree’s time be nigh: 
     Here is now the fruit whose birth
     Cost a throe to Mother Earth. 
     Sweet it is, too, to be telling,
     How the luscious figs are swelling;
     Then to riot without measure
     In the rich, nectareous treasure,
     While our grateful voices chime,—­
     Happy season! blessed time.

          THE CALL TO THE NIGHTINGALE

     From ’The Birds ’:  Frere’s Translation

          Awake! awake! 
               Sleep no more, my gentle mate! 
               With your tiny tawny bill,
          Wake the tuneful echo shrill,
               On vale or hill;
          Or in her airy rocky seat,
          Let her listen and repeat
          The tender ditty that you tell,
               The sad lament,
               The dire event,
          To luckless Itys that befell.