A question comes in Night's long hours, that haunts me like a spectre,
What kind of fish or fowl you'd call a "russet hippalector."
Aeschylus (breaking in).
It was a ship's sign, idiot, such as every joiner fixes!
Dionysus.
Indeed! I thought perhaps it meant that music-man Eryxis!
[Euripides.
You like then, in a tragic play, a cock? You think it mixes?]
Aeschylus (to Euripides).
And what did you yourself produce, O fool with pride deluded?
Euripides.
Not "hippalectors," thank the Lord, nor "tragelaphs," as you did—
The sort of ornament they use to fill a Persian curtain!
—I had the Drama straight from you, all bloated and uncertain,
Weighed down with rich and heavy words, puffed out past comprehension.
I took the case in hand; applied treatment for such distension—
Beetroot, light phrases, little walks, hot book-juice, and cold reasoning;
Then fed her up on solos. . . .
Dionysus (aside).
With Cephisophon for seasoning!
