I deal in pure conceits of my own; which have a shapeliness and a unity, however unsubstantial; but you, Braid-Beard, deal in mangled realities.

In all your chapters, you yourself grope in the dark.

Much truth is not in thee, historian.
Besides, Mohi: my songs perpetuate many things which you sage scribes entirely overlook.

Have you not oftentimes come to me, and my ever dewy ballads for information, in which you and your musty old chronicles were deficient ?" "In much that is precious, Mohi, we poets are the true historians; we embalm; you corrode." To this Mohi, with some ire, was about to make answer, when, flinging over his shoulder a new fold of his mantle, Babbalanja spoke thus: "Peace, rivals.

As Bardianna has it, like all who dispute upon pretensions of their own, you are each nearest the right, when you speak of the other; and furthest therefrom, when you speak of yourselves." Said Mohi and Yoomy in a breath, "Who sought your opinion, philosopher?
you filcher from old Bardianna, and monger of maxims!" "You, who have so long marked the vices of Mardi, that you flatter yourself you have none of your own," added Braid-Beard.
"You, who only seem wise, because of the contrasting follies of others, and not of any great wisdom in yourself," continued the minstrel, with unwonted asperity." "Now here," said Babballanja, "am I charged upon by a bearded old ram, and a lamb.