[The glen, through which the stream, slightly flooded by a night's rain, runs faintly turbid. Dionysus, earnestly engaged in angling, does not hear the approach of Æsculapius.]
Æsculapius [in a high, voluble key].
It is not to me but to you, O ruddy son of Semele, that the crowds of invalids will throng, if you cultivate this piscatory art so eagerly, since to do nothing, serenely, in the open air, without becoming fatigued, is to storm the very citadel of ill-health, and——
Dionysus [testily, without turning round].
Hush! hush!... I felt a nibble.
Æsculapius [in a whisper, flinging himself upon the grass].
It was in such a secluded spot as this that Apollo heard the trout at Aroanius sing like thrushes.
Dionysus.
How these poets exaggerate! The trout sang, I suppose, like the missel-thrush.