SPEUSIPPUS.
My verses! How can you talk so? I a professed poet!

ALCIBIADES.
Oh, content you, sweet Speusippus. We all know your designs upon
the tragic honours. Come, sing. A chorus of your new play.

SPEUSIPPUS.
Nay, nay--

HIPPOMACHUS.
When a guest who is asked to sing at a Persian banquet refuses--

SPEUSIPPUS.
In the name of Bacchus--

ALCIBIADES.
I am absolute. Sing.

SPEUSIPPUS.
Well, then, I will sing you a chorus, which, I think, is a
tolerable imitation of Euripides.

CHARICLEA.
Of Euripides?--Not a word.

ALCIBIADES.
Why so, sweet Chariclea?