All men who call your loins your own, awake at last, arise And strip to stand in readiness. For as it seems to me Some more perilous offensive in their heads they now devise. I'm sure a Tyranny Like that of Hippias In this I detect.... They mean to put us under Themselves I suspect, And that Laconians assembling At Cleisthenes' house have played A trick-of-war and provoked them Madly to raid The Treasury, in which term I include The Pay for my food. For is it not preposterous They should talk this way to us On a subject such as battle! And, women as they are, about bronze bucklers dare prattle-- Make alliance with the Spartans--people I for one Like very hungry wolves would always most sincere shun.... Some dirty game is up their sleeve, I believe. A Tyranny, no doubt... but they won't catch me, that know. Henceforth on my guard I'll go, A sword with myrtle-branches wreathed for ever in my hand, And under arms in the Public Place I'll take my watchful stand, Shoulder to shoulder with Aristogeiton. Now my staff I'll draw And start at once by knocking that shocking Hag upon the jaw.

Old Men Monologue from Lysistrata

Rehearse Old Men's monologue