SLAVE. Certainly, old man; busy gathering subtle fancies here and there,
his mind is not in the house, but he himself is; perched aloft, he is
composing a tragedy.
DICAEOPOLIS. Oh, Euripides, you are indeed happy to have a slave so quick
at repartee! Now, fellow, call your master.
SLAVE. Impossible!
DICAEOPOLIS. So much the worse. But I will not go. Come, let us knock at
the door. Euripides, my little Euripides, my darling Euripides, listen;
never had man greater right to your pity. It is Dicaeopolis of the
Chollidan Deme who calls you. Do you hear?
EURIPIDES. I have no time to waste.