XAN. But never a word of me, Not though my shoulder's chafed so
terribly.

HER. But have you not a shoal of little songsters,
Tragedians by the myriad, who can chatter
A furlong faster than Euripides?

DIO. Those be mere vintage-leavings, jabberers, choirs
Of swallow-broods, degraders of their art,
Who get one chorus, and are seen no more,
The Muses' love once gained. But O my friend,
Search where you will, you'll never find a true
Creative genius, uttering startling things.

HER. Creative? how do you mean?

DIO. I mean a man Who'll dare some novel venturesome conceit,
_Air, Zeus's chamber_, or _Time's foot_, or this,
_'Twas not my mind that swore: my tongue committed
A little perjury on its own account._

HER. You like that style?

DIO. Like it? I dote upon it.

HER. I vow it's ribald nonsense, and you know it.

DIO. "Rule not my mind": you've got a house to mind.

HER. Really and truly though 'tis paltry stuff.