Are quite inflamed and swoln with all these smitings.
Wait till you've heard another batch of lays
Culled from his lyre-accompanied melodies.
Go on then, go: but no more smitings, please.
"How the twin-throned powers of Achaea,
the lords of the mighty Hellenes.
Sendeth the Sphinx, the unchancy, the chieftainness bloodhound.
launcheth fierce with brand and hand the avengers
the terrible eagle.
So for the swift-winged hounds of the air he provided a booty.
The throng down-bearing on Aias.
Whence comes that phlattothrat?
From Marathon, or
Where picked you up these cable-twister's strains?
From noblest source for noblest ends brought them,
Unwilling in the Muses' holy field
The self-same flowers as Phrynichus to cull.
But he from all things rotten draws his lays,
From Carian flutings, catches of Meletus,
Dance-music, dirges. You shall hear directly.
Bring me the lyre. Yet wherefore need a lyre
For songs like these? Where's she that bangs and jangles
Her castanets? Euripides's Muse,
Present yourself: fit goddess for fit verse.
The Muse herself can't be a wanton? No!
Halycons, who by the ever-rippling
Waves of the sea are babbling,
Dewing your plumes with the drops that fall
From wings in the salt spray dabbling.
Spiders, ever with twir-r-r-r-r-rling fingers
Weaving the warp and the woof,
Little, brittle, network, fretwork,
Under the coigns of the roof.
The minstrel shuttle's care.
Where in the front of the dark-prowed ships
Yarely the flute-loving dolphin skips.
Races here and oracles there.
And the joy of the young vines smiling,
And the tendril of grapes, care-beguiling.
O embrace me, my child, O embrace me.
(To DIONYSUS) You see this foot?
And that one too.
AESCHYLUS (to EURIPIDES)
You, such stuff who compile,
Dare my songs to upbraid;
You, whose songs in the style
Of Cyrene's embraces are made.