By Phosphor, if your hand moves out her way
You'd better have a surgeon somewhere handy.
You too! Where is that archer? Take that woman.
I'll put a stop to these surprise-parties.
By the Tauric Artemis, one inch nearer
My fingers, and it's a bald man that'll be yelling.
Tut tut, what's here? Deserted by my archers....
But surely women never can defeat us;
Close up your ranks, my Scythians. Forward at them.
By the Goddesses, you'll find that here await you
Four companies of most pugnacious women
Armed cap-a-pie from the topmost louring curl
To the lowest angry dimple.
On, Scythians, bind them.
On, gallant allies of our high design,
Vendors of grain-eggs-pulse-and-vegetables,
Ye garlic-tavern-keepers of bakeries,
Strike, batter, knock, hit, slap, and scratch our foes,
Be finely imprudent, say what you think of them....
Enough! retire and do not rob the dead.
How basely did my archer-force come off.
Ah, ha, you thought it was a herd of slaves
You had to tackle, and you didn't guess
The thirst for glory ardent in our blood.
By Apollo, I know well the thirst that heats you—
Especially when a wine-skin's close.