PISTHETAERUS. 'Tis acting wisely, by Zeus.
CINESIAS.[331] "On my light pinions I soar off to Olympus; in its capricious flight my Muse flutters along the thousand paths of poetry in turn …"
PISTHETAERUS. This is a fellow will need a whole shipload of wings.
CINESIAS. … it is seeking fresh outlet."
PISTHETAERUS. Welcome, Cinesias, you lime-wood man![332] Why have you come here a-twisting your game leg in circles?
CINESIAS. "I want to become a bird, a tuneful nightingale."
PISTHETAERUS. Enough of that sort of ditty. Tell me what you want.
CINESIAS. Give me wings and I will fly into the topmost airs to gather fresh songs in the clouds, in the midst of the vapours and the fleecy snow.
PISTHETAERUS. Gather songs in the clouds?
CINESIAS. 'Tis on them the whole of our latter-day art depends. The most brilliant dithyrambs are those that flap their wings in void space and are clothed in mist and dense obscurity. To appreciate this, just listen.