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
(1) See Thucydides, vi. 90.
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.
SPEÜSIPPÜS.
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.
SPEÜSIPPÜS.
Nay, nay—