CHORUS OF PRIESTS, ACCOMPANIED BY THE COURT PORKMAN ON MARROW-BONES
AND CLEAVERS: 
GODDESS bare, and gaunt, and pale,
Empress of the world, all hail! 
What though Cretans old called thee
City-crested Cybele? 
We call thee FAMINE! 5
Goddess of fasts and feasts, starving and cramming! 
Through thee, for emperors, kings, and priests and lords,
Who rule by viziers, sceptres, bank-notes, words,
The earth pours forth its plenteous fruits,
Corn, wool, linen, flesh, and roots—­ 10
Those who consume these fruits through thee grow fat,
Those who produce these fruits through thee grow lean,
Whatever change takes place, oh, stick to that! 
And let things be as they have ever been;
At least while we remain thy priests, 15
And proclaim thy fasts and feasts. 
Through thee the sacred SWELLF00T dynasty
Is based upon a rock amid that sea
Whose waves are Swine—­so let it ever be!

[SWELLFOOT, ETC., SEAT THEMSELVES AT A TABLE MAGNIFICENTLY COVERED AT
THE UPPER END OF THE TEMPLE. 
ATTENDANTS PASS OVER THE STAGE WITH HOG-WASH IN PAILS. 
A NUMBER OF PIGS, EXCEEDINGLY LEAN, FOLLOW THEM LICKING UP THE WASH.]

MAMMON: 
I fear your sacred Majesty has lost 20
The appetite which you were used to have. 
Allow me now to recommend this dish—­
A simple kickshaw by your Persian cook,
Such as is served at the great King’s second table. 
The price and pains which its ingredients cost 25
Might have maintained some dozen families
A winter or two—­not more—­so plain a dish
Could scarcely disagree.—­

SWELLFOOT: 
After the trial,
And these fastidious Pigs are gone, perhaps
I may recover my lost appetite,—­ 30
I feel the gout flying about my stomach—­
Give me a glass of Maraschino punch.

PURGANAX (FILLING HIS GLASS, AND STANDING UP): 
The glorious Constitution of the Pigs!

ALL: 
A toast! a toast! stand up, and three times three!

DAKRY: 
No heel-taps—­darken daylights! —­

LAOCTONOS: 
Claret, somehow, 35
Puts me in mind of blood, and blood of claret!

SWELLFOOT: 
Laoctonos is fishing for a compliment,
But ’tis his due.  Yes, you have drunk more wine,
And shed more blood, than any man in Thebes.
[TO PURGANAX.]
For God’s sake stop the grunting of those Pigs! 40

PURGANAX: 
We dare not, Sire, ’tis Famine’s privilege.

CHORUS OF SWINE: 
Hail to thee, hail to thee, Famine! 
Thy throne is on blood, and thy robe is of rags;
Thou devil which livest on damning;
Saint of new churches, and cant, and GREEN BAGS, 45
Till in pity and terror thou risest,
Confounding the schemes of the wisest;
When thou liftest thy skeleton form,
When the loaves and the skulls roll about,
We will greet thee-the voice of a storm 50
Would be lost in our terrible shout!