XANTHIAS. Do have a care.
PHILOCLEON. Look how easily my leg-joints move.
BDELYCLEON. Great gods! What does all this mean? Is it actual, downright
madness?
PHILOCLEON. And now I summon and challenge my rivals. If there be a
tragic poet who pretends to be a skilful dancer, let him come and contest
the matter with me. Is there one? Is there _not_ one?
BDELYCLEON. Here comes one, and one only.
PHILOCLEON. Who is the wretch?