The Frogs - Page 2

two?

DIO. We two.

HER. And then I awoke, and lo!

DIO. There as, on deck, I'm reading to myself
The Andromeda, a sudden pang of longing
Shoots 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 am
In 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 heart
For lost Euripides.

HER. A dead man too.

DIO. And no one shall persuade me not to go after 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 sole Good 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 comes Before Euripides--why
not take _him_?

DIO. Not till I've tried if Iophon's coin rings true
When 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 chatter
A furlong faster than Euripides?

DIO. Those be mere vintage-leavings, jabberers, choirs
Of 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 true
Creative genius, uttering startling things.

HER. Creative? how do you mean?

DIO. I mean a man Who'll dare some novel venturesome conceit,
_Air, Zeus's chamber_, or _Time's foot_, or this,
_'Twas not my mind that swore: my tongue