ALCIBIADES.
Why so, sweet Chariclea?
CHARICLEA.
Would you have me betray my sex? Would you have me forget his Phædras and Sthenoboas? No: if I ever suffer any lines of that woman-hater, or his imitators, to be sung in my presence, may I (1) sell herbs like his mother, and wear rags like his Telephus. (2)
ALCIBIADES.
Then, sweet Chariclea, since you have silenced Speusippus, you shall sing yourself.
CHARICLEA.
What shall I sing?
ALCIBIADES.
Nay, choose for yourself.