Xanthias (reflecting).
But, I say,
Sophocles surely must have claimed the throne?
Aeacus.
Not he; as soon as ever he came down,
He kissed old Aeschylus, and wrung his hand,
And Aeschylus made room on half his seat.
And now he means to wait—or so, at least,
Clidemides informs us—in reserve.
If Aeschylus wins the day, he'll rest content:
If not, why then, he says, for poor Art's sake,
He must show fight against Euripides!
Xanthias.
It is to be, then?
Aeacus.
Certainly, quite soon.
Just where you stand well have the shock of war.
They'll weigh the poetry line by line . . .
Xanthias.
Poor thing,
A lamb set in the meat-scale and found wanting!
Aeacus.
They'll bring straight-edges out, and cubit-rules,
And folded cube-frames . . .
Xanthias.
Is it bricks they want?
Aeacus.
And mitre-squares and wedges! Line by line
Euripides will test all tragedies!
