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The central theme of modern tragedy! It is the boast of Aeschylus that there is not one of his plays which touches on this subject: "I never allow'd of your lewd Sthenoboeas Or filthy detestable Phaedras not I! Indeed I should doubt if my drama throughout Exhibit an instance of woman in love!"
Now, my dear sir, can any one who calls himself a man, and an educated man, and in some sort a student of philosophy, can such a one leave those higher pursuits, leave communing with the sages of old, to sit still and listen to the sound of a flute, and watch the antics of an effeminate creature got up in soft raiment to sing lascivious songs and mimic the passions of prehistoric strumpets, of Rhodopes and Phaedras and Parthenopes, to the accompaniment of twanging string and shrilling pipe and clattering heel?
SPEUSIPPUS. In the name of Bacchus ALCIBIADES. I am absolute. Sing. SPEUSIPPUS. Well, then, I will sing you a chorus, which, I think, is a tolerable imitation of Euripides. CHARICLEA. Of Euripides? Not a word. ALCIBIADES. Why so, sweet Chariclea? CHARICLEA. Would you have me betray my sex? Would you have me forget his Phaedras and Sthenoboeas?
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