I say I’m better in poetic skill.

Why are you silent, Aeschylus? You hear the claim he’s made.

His high-and-mighty pose— he does that at the start of every play, some hocus-pocus for his tragedies.

My dear fellow, that’s too much big talk.

I know the man—and for a long time now I’ve studied him. He makes crude characters with stubborn tongues. As for his own mouth,

it’s unrestrained and uncontrolled, unlocked, no proper discourse, bombastiloquent.

Is that so, you garden-goddess child?

You say that of me, you gossip-monger, a beggar’s poet who picks and stitches rags? You’ll regret those words.

Hey, Aeschylus, hold on. Don’t fire up your heart so angrily,

with such ill will.

No, no, I won’t hold back, ’til I’ve exposed the man and clearly proved this cripples’ poet is a boastful fool . . .

Hey, boys, bring out a sheep—a black one, too. It looks as if a storm’s about to break.

AESCHYLUS:

. . . collecting all those monodies from Crete, importing impure marriage into art . . .

Whoa, hold on there, much-honoured Aeschylus. And you, my poor Euripides, back off beyond this breaking storm—that would be wise,

in case his anger cracks your skull in two, some heady phrase makes all your brain leak out your hero Telephos. And you there, Aeschylus,

don’t get so angry. Test him, but calmly— and then be tested, too. It’s just not right for poets to engage in such abuse, like two women selling bread. You bellow as if you were a tree on fire.

I’m ready.

I don’t mind biting or being bitten first, whatever he prefers, about my diction,

or the songs and sinews of my tragic plays— and by god, about Peleus, too, my Meleager or my Aeolos,

or, even more about my Telephos.

What do you want to do? Tell us, Aeschylus.

I have no wish to enter battle here. The war we fight is not on equal terms.

Why’s that?

My poetry did not die with me, but his did once he died. So it’s down here— he’ll have it with him when he wants to speak.

But nonetheless since it’s what you want, we must go through with this.

Come now, someone bring an offering here, and fire as well,

so I can pray before this contest starts, our battle of the brains, and judge the fight with maximum aesthetic expertise.

Now for the Muses you should sing a song.

O you nine sacred Muses mighty Zeus’s virgin daughters, gazing down on subtle minds,

you see intelligence at work in men who write our maxims. When such as these go out to fight,

with counterarguments and tricks, with fiercely studied wrestling moves, with crooked throws, come to us here, observe the power of these mouths, their awesome skill in making words,

sawing phrases up like sawdust. Now our great contest in this art

stands ready, let the business start.

Before we have you two recite your lines, you ought to offer up your prayers.

O Demeter,

who nourishes my mind, make me worthy to be there in your mysteries.

It’s your turn— take some incense. Make an offering.

All right— but I pray to different gods.

Personal ones? Your very own? Freshly minted?

That’s right.

Then pray away to those private gods of yours.

O air, my food, O pivot of my tongue, O native wit, O nose that smells so fine, whatever words I seize upon, let me refute them—let the victory be mine.

Now we’re filled with great desire to hear from poets with such skill, the pathway in this war of words they’ll walk along. Their tongues are wild, no lack of boldness in their mood, nor are their intellects asleep. It looks as though we’re going to see

Then pray away to those private gods of yours.

O air, my food, O pivot of my tongue, O native wit, O nose that smells so fine, whatever words I seize upon, let me refute them—let the victory be mine.

Now we’re filled with great desire to hear from poets with such skill, the pathway in this war of words they’ll walk along. Their tongues are wild, no lack of boldness in their mood, nor are their intellects asleep. It looks as though we’re going to see