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I will never yield the chair, no more advice;
For I claim to be this man's superior in the art.
Why are you silent, Aeschylus? You hear what he says.
First he'll put on solemn airs, just as so often
he used to pull those hoaxes in his tragedies.
My good sir, don't talk so high and mighty.
I know him well, and have long examined him,
creator of crude characters, stubborn-mouthed,
he's got an unbridled, uncontrolled, ungated mouth
Is that right, you child of the garden goddess?
You call me that, you gossip-gathering
beggar-making son of a rag-stitcher?
You'll be sorry for saying that.
Don't heat up your innards with wrath so angrily.
Oh no, not before I thoroughly expose this
cripple-creator for the braggart that he is.
A sheep, a black sheep, boys, bring one out,
for a typhoon is fixing to let loose!
You collector of Cretan arias
bringing unholy wedlocks to our art—
Hold on there, much-distinguished Aeschylus:
And you, you rogue Euripides, get out of the way
of this hailstorm, if you are wise,
lest with some heady phrase he crack your skull
in anger and spill out your Telephus.
And you, don't get angry, Aeschylus, but gently
test and be tested; it's just not proper
for poets to abuse each other like fishwives.
But you roar like an oak on fire.