ALCIBIADES.
I wish that he had trod upon you. Come, come, Chariclea, we
shall soon return, and then--

CHARICLEA.
Yes; then indeed.

ALCIBIADES.
Yes, then--
Then for revels; then for dances,
Tender whispers, melting glances.
Peasants, pluck your richest fruits:
Minstrels, sound your sweetest flutes:
Come in laughing crowds to greet us,
Dark-eyed daughters of Miletus;
Bring the myrtles, bring the dice,
Floods of Chian, hills of spice.

SPEUSIPPUS.
Whose lines are those, Alcibiades?

ALCIBIADES.
My own. Think you, because I do not shut myself up to meditate,
and drink water, and eat herbs, that I cannot write verses? By
Apollo, if I did not spend my days in politics, and my nights in
revelry, I should have made Sophocles tremble. But now I never
go beyond a little song like this, and never invoke any Muse but
Chariclea. But come, Speusippus, sing. You are a professed
poet. Let us have some of your verses.