January 18 The Harvard Classics, fifteen minutes a day
Origin of Yale “Brekekekex-Ko-ax”
“Shall I crack any of those old jokes, master, at which the audience never fails to laugh?” Like an up-to-date vaudeville team, Xanthias and Dionysus start off a dialogue that mingles wit and poetry with humor and keen satire.
From the 1930 Reading Guide
The Frogs
Aristophanes
The reading starts at the title “THE FROGS” on page 439.
THE FROGS
OF ARISTOPHANES
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
THE GOD DIONYSUSXANTHIAS, his slaveAESCHYLUSEURIPIDESHERACLESPLUTOCHARONAEACUS, house porter to PlutoA CORPSEA MAIDSERVANT OF PERSEPHONEA LANDLADY IN HADESPLATHANE, her partnerA CHORUS OF FROGSA CHORUS OF INITIATED PERSONSAttendants at a Funeral; Women worshipping Iacchus; Servants of Pluto, &c.
Xanthias
SHALL I crack any of those old jokes, master,At which the audience never fail to laugh?Dionysus. Aye, what you will, except I’m getting crushed:Fight shy of that: I’m sick of that already.Xan. Nothing else smart? Dio. Aye, save my shoulder’s aching.Xan. Come now, that comical joke? Dio. With all my heart.Only be careful not to shift your pole,And—Xan. What? Dio. And vow that you’ve a belly-ache.Xan. May I not say I’m overburdened soThat if none ease me, I must ease myself?Dio. For mercy’s sake, not till I’m going to vomit.Xan. What! must I bear these burdens, and not makeOne of the jokes Ameipsias and LycisAnd Phrynichus, in every play they write,Put in the mouths of all their burden-bearers?Dio. Don’t make them; no! I tell you when I seeTheir plays, and hear those jokes, I come awayMore than a twelvemonth older than I went.Xan. O, thrice unlucky neck of mine, which nowIs getting crushed, yet must not crack its joke!Dio. Now is not this fine pampered insolenceWhen I myself, Dionysus, son of—Pipkin,Toil on afoot, and let this fellow ride,Taking no trouble, and no burden bearing?Xan, What, don’t I bear? Dio. How can you when you’re riding?Xan. Why, I bear these. Dio. How? Xan. Most unwillingly.Dio. Does not the donkey bear the load you’re bearing?Xan. Not what I bear myself: by Zeus, not he.Dio. How can you bear, when you are borne yourself?Xan. Don’t know: but anyhow my shoulder’s aching.Dio. Then since you say the donkey helps you not,You lift him up and carry him in turn.Xan. O, hang it all! why didn’t I fight at sea?You should have smarted bitterly for this.Dio. Get down, you rascal; I’ve been trudging onTill now I’ve reached the portal, where I’m goingFirst to turn in. Boy! Boy! I say there, Boy!Heracles. Who banged the door? How like a prancing CentaurHe drove against it! Mercy o’ me, what’s this?Dio. Boy. Xan. Yes. Dio. Did you observe? Xan. What? Dio.How alarmedHe is. Xan. Aye, truly, lest you’ve lost your wits.Her. O, by Demeter, I can’t choose but laugh.Biting my lips won’t stop me. Ha! ha! ha!Dio. Pray you, come hither, I have need of you.Her. I vow I can’t help laughing, I can’t help it.A lion’s hide upon a yellow silk,A club and buskin! What’s it all about?Where were you going? Dio. I was serving latelyAboard the—Cleisthenes. Her. And fought? Dio. And sankMore than a dozen of the enemy’s ships.Her. You two? Dio. We two. Her. And then I awoke, and lo!Dio. There as, on deck, I’m reading to myselfThe “Andromeda,” a sudden pang of longingShoots through my heart, you can’t conceive how keenly.Her. How big a pang? Dio. A small one, Molon’s size.Her. Caused by a woman? Dio. No. Her. A boy? Dio. No, no.Her. A man? Dio. Ah! ah! Her. Was it for Cleisthenes?Dio. Don’t mock me, brother; on my life I amIn a bad way: such fierce desire consumes me.Her. Aye, little brother? how? Dio. I can’t describe it.But yet I’ll tell you in a riddling way.Have you e’er felt a sudden lust for soup?Her. Soup! Zeus-a-mercy, yes, ten thousand times.Dio. Is the thing clear, or must I speak again?Her. Not of the soup: I’m clear about the soup.Dio. Well, just that sort of pang devours my heartFor lost Euripides. Her. A dead man too.Dio. And no one shall persuade me not to goAfter the man. Her. Do you mean below, to Hades?Dio. And lower still, if there’s a lower still.Her. What on earth for? Dio. I want a genuine poet,“For some are not, and those that are, are bad.”Her. What! does not Iophon live? Dio. Well, he’s the soleGood thing remaining, if even he is good.For even of that I’m not exactly certain.Her. If go you must, there’s Sophocles—he comesBefore Euripides—why not take him?Dio. Not till I’ve tried if Iophon’s coin rings trueWhen he’s alone, apart from Sophocles.Besides, Euripides, the crafty rogue,Will find a thousand shifts to get away,But he was easy here, is easy there.Her. But Agathon, where is he? Dio. He has gone and left us.A genial poet, by his friends much missed.Her. Gone where? Dio. To join the blessed in their banquets.Her. But what of Xenocles? Dio. O, he be hanged!Her. Pythangelus? Xan. But never a word of me,Not though my shoulder’s chafed so terribly.Her. But have you not a shoal of little songsters,Tragedians by the myriad, who can chatterA furlong faster than Euripides?Dio. Those be mere vintage-leavings, jabberers, choirsOf swallow-broods, degraders of their art,Who get one chorus, and are seen no more,The Muses’ love once gained. But, O my friend,Search where you will, you’ll never find a trueCreative genius, uttering startling things.Her. Creative? how do you mean? Dio. I mean a manWho’ll dare some novel venturesome conceit,Air, Zeus’s chamber, or Time’s foot, or this:’Twas not my mind that swore: my tongue committedA little perjury on its own account.Her. Youlike that style? Dio. Like it? I dote upon it.Her. I vow it’s ribald nonsense, and you know it.Dio. “Rule not my mind”: you’ve got a house to mind.Her. Really and truly, though, ’tis paltry stuff.Dio. Teach me to dine! Xan. But never a word of me.Dio. But tell me truly—’twas for this I cameDressed up to mimic you—what friends receivedAnd entertained you when you went belowTo bring back Cerberus, in case I need them.And tell me too the havens, fountains, shops,Roads, resting-places, stews, refreshment rooms,Towns, lodgings, hostesses, with whom were foundThe fewest bugs. Xan. But never a word of me.Her. You are really game to go? Dio. O, drop that, can’t you?And tell me this: of all the roads you know,Which is the quickest way to get to Hades?I want one not too warm, nor yet too cold.Her. Which shall I tell you first? which shall it be?There’s one by rope and bench: you launch awayAnd—hang yourself. Dio. No, thank you: that’s too stifling.Her. Then there’s a track, a short and beaten cut,By pestle and mortar. Dio. Hemlock, do you mean?Her. Just so. Dio. No, that’s too deathly cold a way;You have hardly started ere your shins get numbed.Her. Well, would you like a steep and swift descent?Dio. Aye, that’s the style: my walking powers are small.Her. Go down to the Cerameicus. Dio. And do what?Her. Climb to the tower’s top pinnacle—Dio. And then?Her. Observe the torch-race started, and when allThe multitude is shouting Let them go,Let yourself go. Dio. Go whither? Her. To the ground.Dio. O, that would break my brain’s two envelopes.I’ll not try that. Her. Which will you try? Dio. The wayYou went yourself. Her. A parlous voyage that,For first you’ll come to an enormous lakeOf fathomless depth. Dio. And how am I to cross?Her. An ancient mariner will row you overIn a wee boat, so big. The fare’s two obols.Dio. Fie! The power two obols have, the whole world through!How came they thither? Her. Theseus took them down.And next you’ll see great snakes and savage monstersIn tens of thousands. Dio. You needn’t try to scare me,I’m going to go. Her. Then weltering seas of filthAnd ever-rippling dung: and plunged therein,Whoso has wronged the stranger here on earth,Or robbed his boy-love of the promised pay,Or swinged his mother, or profanely smittenHis father’s cheek, or sworn an oath forsworn,Or copied out a speech of Morsimus.Dio. There too, perdie, should he be plunged, whoe’erHas danced the sword-dance of Cinesias.Her. And next the breath of flutes will float around you,And glorious sunshine, such as ours, you’ll see,And myrtle groves, and happy bands who clapTheir hands in triumph, men and women too.Dio. And who are they? Her. The happy mystic bands,Xan. And I’m the donkey in the mystery show.But I’ll not stand it, not one instant longer.Her. Who’ll tell you everything you want to know.You’ll find them dwelling close beside the roadYou are going to travel, just at Pluto’s gate.And fare thee well, my brother. Dio. And to youGood cheer. (To Xan.) Now, sirrah, pick you up the traps.Xan. Before I’ve put them down? Dio. And quickly too.Xan. No, prithee, no; but hire a body, oneThey’re carrying out, on purpose for the trip.Dio. If I can’t find one? Xan. Then I’ll take them. Dio. Good.And see! they are carrying out a body now.Hallo! you there, you deadman, are you willingTo carry down our little traps to Hades?Corpse. What are they? Dio. These. Corp. Two drachmas for the job?Dio. Nay, that’s too much. Corp. Out of the pathway, you!Dio. Beshrew thee, stop: maybe we’ll strike a bargain.Corp. Pay me two drachmas, or it’s no use talking.Dio. One and a half. Corp. I’d liefer live again!Xan. How absolute the knave is! He be hanged!I’ll go myself. Dio. You’re the right sort, my man.Now to the ferry. Charon. Yoh, up! lay her to.Xan. Whatever’s that? Dio. Why, that’s the lake, by Zeus,Whereof he spake, and yon’s the ferry-boat.Xan. Poseidon, yes, and that old fellow’s Charon.Dio. Charon! O welcome, Charon! welcome, Charon!Char. Who’s for the Rest from every pain and ill?Who’s for the Lethe’s plain? the Donkey-shearings?Who’s for Cerberia? Taenarum? or the Ravens?Dio. I. Char. Hurry in. Dio. But where are you going really?In truth to the Ravens? Char. Aye, for your behoof.Step in. Dio. (To Xan.) Now, lad. Char. A slave? I take no slave,Unless he has fought for his body-rights at sea.Xan. I couldn’t go. I’d got the eye-disease.Char. Then fetch a circuit round about the lake.Xan. Where must I wait? Char. Beside the Withering stone,Hard by the Rest. Dio. You understand? Xan. Too well.O, what ill omen crossed me as I started!Char. (To Dio.) Sit to the oar. (Calling.) Who else for the boat? Be quick.(To Dio.) Hi! what are you doing? Dio. What am I doing? SittingOn to the oar. You told me to, yourself.Char. Now sit you there, you little Potgut. Dio. So?Char. Now stretch your arms full length before you. Dio. So?Char. Come, don’t keep fooling; plant your feet, and nowPull with a will. Dio. Why, how am I / to pull?I’m not an oarsman, seaman, Salaminian.I can’t! Char. You can. Just dip your oar in once,You’ll hear the loveliest timing songs. Dio. What from?Char. Frog-swans, most wonderful. Dio. Then give the word.Char. Heave ahoy! heave ahoy!Frogs. Brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax!Brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax!We children of the fountain and the lake,Let us wakeOur full choir-shout, as the flutes are ringing out,Our symphony of clear-voiced song.The song we used to love, in the Marshland up above,In praise of Dionysus to produce,Of Nysaean Dionysus, son of Zeus,When the revel-tipsy throng, all crapulous and gay,To our precinct reeled along on the holy Pitcher day.Brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax.Dio. O, dear! O, dear! now I declareI’ve got a bump upon my rump.Fr. Brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax.Dio. But you, perchance, don’t care.Fr. Brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax.Dio. Hang you, and your ko-axing too!There’s nothing but ko-ax with you.Fr. That is right, Mr. Busybody, right!For the Muses of the lyre love us well;And hornfoot Pan who plays on the pipe his jocund lays;And Apollo, Harper bright, in our Chorus takes delight;For the strong reed’s sake which I grow within my lakeTo be girdled in his lyre’s deep shell.Brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax.Dio. My hands are blistered very sore;My stern below is sweltering so,’Twill soon, I know, upturn and roarBrekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax.O tuneful race, O, pray give o’er,O, sing no more. Fr. Ah, no! ah, no!Loud and louder our chant must flow.Sing if ever ye sang of yore,When in sunny and glorious daysThrough the rushes and marsh-flags springingOn we swept, in the joy of singingMyriad-diving roundelays.Or when fleeing the storm, we wentDown to the depths, and our choral songWildly raised to a loud and longBubble-bursting accompaniment.Fr. and Dio. Brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax.Dio. This timing song I take from you.Fr. That’s a dreadful thing to do.Dio. Much more dreadful, if I rowTill I burst myself, I trow.Fr. and Dio. Brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax.Dio. Go, hang yourselves; for what care I?Fr. All the same we’ll shout and cry,Stretching all our throats with song,Shouting, crying, all day long,Fr. and Dio. Brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax.Dio. In this you’ll never, never win.Fr. This you shall not beat us in.Dio. No, nor ye prevail o’er me.Never! never! I’ll my songShout, if need be, all day long,Until I’ve learned to master your ko-ax.Brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax.I thought I’d put a stop to your ko-ax.Char. Stop! Easy! Take the oar and push her to.Now pay your fare and go. Dio. Here ’tis: two obols.Xanthias! where’s Xanthias? Is it Xanthias there?Xan. Hoi, hoi! Dio. Come hither. Xan. Glad to meet you, master.Dio. What have you there? Xan. Nothing but filth and darkness.Dio. But tell me, did you see the parricidesAnd perjured folk he mentioned? Xan. Didn’t you?Dio. Poseidon, yes. Why, look! (Pointing to the audience.) I see them now.What’s the next step? Xan. We’d best be moving on.This is the spot where Heracles declaredThose savage monsters dwell. Dio. O, hang the fellow!That’s all his bluff: he thought to scare me off,The jealous dog, knowing my plucky ways.There’s no such swaggerer lives as Heracles.Why, I’d like nothing better than to achieveSome bold adventure, worthy of our trip.Xan. I know you would. Hallo! I hear a noise.Dio. Where? what? Xan. Behind us, there. Dio. Get you behind.Xan. No, it’s in front. Dio. Get you in front directly.Xan. And now I see the most ferocious monster.Dio. O, what’s it like? Xan. Like everything by turns.Now it’s a bull: now it’s a mule: and nowThe loveliest girl. Dio. O, where? I’ll go and meet her.Xan. It’s ceased to be a girl: it’s a dog now.Dio. It is Empusa! Xan. Well, its face is allAblaze with fire. Dio. Has it a copper leg?Xan. A copper leg? yes, one; and one of cow dung.Dio. O, whither shall I flee? Xan. O, whither I?Dio. My priest, protect me, and we’ll sup together.Xan. King Heracles, we’re done for. Dio. O, forbear,Good fellow, call me anything but that.Xan. Well, then, Dionysus. Dio. O, that’s worse again.Xan. (To the Spectre.) Aye, go thy way. O master, here, come here.Dio. O, what’s up now? Xan. Take courage; all’s serene.And, like Hegelochus, we now may say,“Out of the storm there comes a new fine wether.”Empusa’s gone. Dio. Swear it. Xan. By Zeus she is.Dio. Swear it again. Xan. By Zeus. Dio. Again. Xan. By Zeus.O, dear, O, dear, how pale I grew to see her,But he from fright has yellowed me all over.Dio. Ah me, whence fall these evils on my head?Who is the god to blame for my destruction?Air, Zeus’s chamber, or the Foot of Time?
(A flute is played behind the scenes.)
Dio. Hist! Xan. What’s the matter? Dio. Didn’t you hear it?Xan. What?Dio. The breath of flutes. Xan. Aye, and a whiff of torchesBreathed o’er me too; a very mystic whiff.Dio. Then crouch we down, and mark what’s going on.Chorus. (In the distance.) O Iacchus!O Iacchus! O Iacchus!Xan. I have it, master: ’tis those blessed Mystics,Of whom he told us, sporting hereabouts.They sing the Iacchus which Diagoras made.Dio. I think so too: we had better both keep quietAnd so find out exactly what it is.
(The calling forth of Iacchus.)
Chor. O Iacchus! power excelling, here in stately temples dwelling,O Iacchus! O Iacchus!Come to tread this verdant level,Come to dance in mystic revel,Come whilst round thy forehead hurtlesMany a wreath of fruitful myrtles,Come with wild and saucy pacesMingling in our joyous dance,Pure and holy, which embraces all the charms of all the Graces,When the mystic choirs advance.Xan. Holy and sacred queen, Demeter’s daughter,O, what a jolly whiff of pork breathed o’er me!Dio. Hist! and perchance you’ll get some tripe yourself.
(The welcome to Iacchus.)
Chor. Come, arise, from sleep awaking, come the fiery torches shaking,O Iacchus! O Iacchus!Morning Star that shinest nightly.Lo, the mead is blazing brightly,Age forgets its years and sadness,Agèd knees curvet for gladness,Lift thy flashing torches o’er us,Marshal all thy blameless train,Lead, O, lead the way before us; lead the lovely youthful ChorusTo the marshy flowery plain.
(The warning-off of the profane.)
All evil thoughts and profane be still: far hence, far hence from our choirs depart,Who knows not well what the Mystics tell, or is not holy and pure of heart;Who ne’er has the noble revelry learned, or danced the dance of the Muses high;Or shared in the Bacchic rites which old bull-eating Cratinus’s words supply;Who vulgar coarse buffoonery loves, though all untimely the jests they make;Or lives not easy and kind with all, or kindling faction forbears to slake,But fans the fire, from a base desire some pitiful gain for himself to reap;Or takes, in office, his gifts and bribes, while the city is tossed on the stormy deep;Who fort or fleet to the foe betrays; or, a vile Thorycion, ships awayForbidden stores from Aegina’s shores, to Epidaurus across the BayTransmitting oar-pads and sails and tar, that curst collector of five per cents;The knave who tries to procure supplies for the use of the enemy’s armaments;The Cyclian singer who dares befoul the Lady Hecate’s wayside shrine;The public speaker who once lampooned in our Bacchic feasts would, with heart malign,Keep nibbling away the Comedians’ pay;—to these I utter my warning cry,I charge them once, I charge them twice, I charge them thrice, that they draw not nighTo the sacred dance of the mystic choir. But YE, my comrades, awake the song,The night-long revels of joy and mirth which ever of right to our feast belong.
Page 449 ends mid-sentence; the reading runs on to its end on page 450.
Volume 8, pages 439–449 · See the scanned page on archive.org
This is the reading for January 18 in Fifteen Minutes a Day: The Reading Guide (1930 edition). There the assignment reads “Vol. 8, pp. 439–449.” Read it in the guide.