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Peace is drawn out of the pit. With her come Opora and Theoria.
 Ah! venerated goddess, who givest us our grapes, where am I to find the ten-thousand-gallon words wherewith to greet thee? I have none such at home. Oh! hail to thee, Opora, and thee, Theoria! How beautiful is thy face!  How sweet thy breath! What gentle fragrance comes from thy bosom, gentle as freedom from military duty, as the most dainty perfumes! Hermes
Is it then a smell like a soldier's knapsack? Trygaeus
Oh! hateful soldier! your hideous satchel makes me sick! it stinks like the belching of onions,  whereas this lovable deity has the odor of sweet fruits, of festivals, of the Dionysia, of the harmony of flutes, of the tragic poets, of the verses of Sophocles, of the phrases of Euripides— Hermes
That's a foul calumny, you wretch! She detests that framer of subtleties and quibbles. Trygaeus
 —of ivy, of straining-bags for wine, of bleating ewes, of provision-laden women hastening to the kitchen, of the tipsy servant wench, of the upturned wine-jar, and of a whole heap of other good things. Hermes
Then look how the  reconciled towns chat pleasantly together, how they laugh, and yet they are all cruelly mishandled; their wounds are bleeding still. Trygaeus
But let us also scan the mien of the spectators; we shall thus find out the trade of each. Hermes
Good god! Trygaeus
 Do you see that poor crest-maker, tearing at his hair? Hermes
—and that pike-maker, who has just farted in yon sword-cutler's face? Trygaeus
And do you see with what pleasure this sickle-maker is thumbing his nose at the spear-maker? Hermes
 Now tell the husbandmen to be off.