STREPSIADES. 'Tis then for this that they praise "the rapid flight of the moist clouds, which veil the brightness of day" and "the waving locks of the hundred-headed Typho" and "the impetuous tempests, which float through the heavens, like birds of prey with aerial wings, loaded with mists" and "the rains, the dew, which the clouds outpour."[504] As a reward for these fine phrases they bolt well-grown, tasty mullet and delicate thrushes.
SOCRATES. Yes, thanks to these. And is it not right and meet?
STREPSIADES. Tell me then why, if these really are the Clouds, they so very much resemble mortals. This is not their usual form.
SOCRATES. What are they like then?
STREPSIADES. I don't know exactly; well, they are like great packs of wool, but not like women--no, not in the least.... And these have noses.
SOCRATES. Answer my questions.
STREPSIADES. Willingly! Go on, I am listening.
SOCRATES. Have you not sometimes seen clouds in the sky like a centaur, a leopard, a wolf or a bull?
STREPSIADES. Why, certainly I have, but what then?
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