Horace. It strikes me I am getting the worst of it all round. How much longer is this foolery to go on? You’ll never bring me to your way of thinking.
Messenger. So they all said in Mars.
Horace. You are in for a long visit. Now where will you put up? I can’t take you in myself, but how about our Moon? I make you a present of the Moon—and you can put a fence round it.
Messenger. The Moon is not yours to give.
Horace. That is why I make you a present of it. I’m taking a leaf out of your book. You give away my money, so I give you somebody else’s Moon. That in practice appears to be your delightful Otherdom.
Messenger. It is not.
Horace. Well, why are you trying to convert me?
Messenger. Your conversion is a condition of my return.
Horace. (Exultingly) Self! Self! Who’s selfish now, Marsy?
Messenger. I shall rejoice in saving you no less that the task is imposed upon me.