Euelpides: Good idea! Ho there, within! Slave! slave!
Pisthetaerus: What’s that, friend! You say, “slave,” to summon Epops! It would be much better to shout, “Epops, Epops!”
Euelpides: Well then, Epops! Must I knock again? Epops!
Trochilus: Who’s there? Who calls my master?
Pisthetaerus: Apollo the Deliverer! what an enormous beak!
Trochilus: Good god! they are bird-catchers.
Euelpides: The mere sight of him petrifies me with terror. What a horrible monster.
Trochilus: Woe to you!
Euelpides: But we are not men.
Trochilus: What are you, then?
Euelpides: I am the Fearling, an African bird.
Trochilus: You talk nonsense.
Euelpides: Well, then, just ask it of my feet.
Trochilus: And this other one, what bird is it?
Pisthetaerus: I? I am a Cackling, from the land of the pheasants.
Euelpides: But you yourself, in the name of the gods! what animal are you?
Trochilus: Why, I am a slave-bird.
Euelpides: Why, have you been conquered by a cock?
Trochilus: No, but when my master was turned into a peewit, he begged me to become a bird too, to follow and to serve him.
Euelpides: Does a bird need a servant, then?
Trochilus: ’Tis no doubt because he was a man. At times he wants to eat a dish of loach from Phalerum; I seize my dish and fly to fetch him some. Again he wants some pea-soup; I seize a ladle and a pot and run to get it.
Euelpides: This is, then, truly a running-bird. Come, Trochilus, do us the kindness to call your master.
Trochilus: Why, he has just fallen asleep after a feed of myrtle-berries and a few grubs.
Euelpides: Never mind; wake him up.
Trochilus: I an certain he will be angry. However, I will wake him to please you.