J.—Anyhow, you do not doubt my love?
V.—I pardon this epitrope, but pray use less metaphor and more litotes in the prosopography you dedicate to my modest entity—
J.—What will you? Men love women; I am a man; therefore, I love you.
V.—Your syllogism is perfect in its premises, but the conclusion is false.
J.—Oh! you are a cruel angel!
V.—I like that catachresis, but once again I repeat, I am practical, and prefer synedoche.
J. [Very much perplexed.]—Will you continue the conversation in the garden?
V.—Yes. (They go into the garden.) Look, here is a very lovely parallelogram of green surrounded by petasites. Let us sit under those maritamboues will you?
J.—Willingly! Ah! here I am happy! My heart fills with joy; it seems to me it contains the universe.
V.—You are speaking pure Spinozism.