Messenger. Worm!
Horace. Meaning me? I note that politeness is at a discount in Mars.
Messenger. We are not upon that planet now.
Horace. I thank my stars.
Messenger. Know you why I am here?
Horace. No more than why the other tramp bothered me. You have come rather farther—you may stay a little longer. From the venturesome spirit that prompted this visit I conclude you are of the greatest of your race.
Messenger. I am the poorest gifted, most unhappy, lowest fallen, and easiest spared. I am a criminal, and therefore condemned to make this journey.
Horace. What had you been up to? Do tell.
Messenger. I sinned in vanity. A dear companion and myself had composed a hymn of praise. He died, and I gave it forth as entirely my own.