DIONYSUS Aye, but he’s speaking to the dead, you knave, Who cannot hear us though we call them thrice.
AESCHYLUS And how do you make your prologues?
EURIPIDES You shall hear; And if you find one single thing said twice, Or any useless padding, spit upon me.
DIONYSUS Well, fire away: I’m all agog to hear Your very accurate and faultless prologues.
EURIPIDES A happy man was Oedipus at first—
AESCHYLUS Not so, by Zeus; a most unhappy man. Who, not yet born nor yet conceived, Apollo Foretold would be his father’s murderer. How could he be a happy man at first.
EURIPIDES Then he became the wretchedest of men.
AESCHYLUS Not so, by Zeus; he never ceased to be.
AESCHYLUS No sooner born, than they exposed the babe, (And that in winter), in an earthen crock, Lest he should grow a man, and slay his father. Then with both ankles pierced and swoln, he limped Away to Polybus: still young, he married An ancient crone, and her his mother too. Then scratched out both his eyes.
DIONYSUS Happy indeed Had he been Erasinides’s colleague!
EURIPIDES Nonsense; I say my prologues are firstrate.
AESCHYLUS Nay then, by Zeus, no longer line by line I’ll maul your phrases: but with heaven to aid. I’ll smash your prologues with a bottle of oil.
EURIPIDES You mine with a bottle of oil?
AESCHYLUS With only one. You frame your prologues so that each and all Fit in with a “bottle of oil,” or “coverlet-skin,” Or “‘reticule-bag.”” I’ll prove it here, and now.
EURIPIDES You’ll prove it? You?
AESCHYLUS I will.
DIONYSUS Well then, begin.
EURIPIDES Aegyptus, sailing with his fifty sous,
EURIPIDES As ancient legends mostly tell the tale, Touching at Argos
AESCHYLUS Lost his bottle of oil.
EURIPIDES Hang it, what’s that? Confound that bottle of oil!
DIONYSUS Give him another: let him try again.
EURIPIDES Bacchus, who, clad in fawnskins, leaps and bounds With torch and thyrsus in the choral dance Along Parnassus
AESCHYLUS Lost his bottle of oil.
DIONYSUS Ah me, we are stricken—with that bottle again!
EURIPIDES Pooh, pooh, that’s nothing. I’ve a prologue here, He’ll never tack his bottle of oil to this: No man is blest in every single thing.