Trissotin. I know that I should differ from you altogether, and that few people are able to write such a sonnet.
Vadius. Heaven forbid that I should ever write one so bad!
Trissotin. I maintain that a better one cannot be made, and my reason is that I am the author of it.
Vadius. You?
Trissotin. Myself.
Vadius. I cannot understand how the thing could have happened.
Trissotin. It is unfortunate that I had not the power of pleasing you.
Vadius. My mind must have wandered during the reading, or else the reader spoiled the sonnet; but let us leave that subject, and come to my ballad.
Trissotin. The ballad is, to my mind, an insipid thing; it is no longer the fashion, and savors of ancient times.
Vadius. Yet a ballad has charms for many people.