ROBIN: Now as to thy ransom, Sir Mildly-Meek, at what price dost rate thy
value, spiritual and corporeal?
SIR PALAMON: Fellow, though youthful, well-favoured and poet esteemed, I am
yet marvellous modest! 'Tis true I am knight of lineage lofty, of patrimony
proud, of manors many--
ROBIN: Even as of thy words, Sir Emptiness.
SIR PALAMON: 'Tis also true, thou ignorant atomy, I, like Demosthenes, am
blessed with a wonder o' words and glory o' sweet phrase, and yet, and
here's the enduring wonder--I am still but man, though man blessed with so
much profundity, fecundity, and redundity of thought and expression, and
therefore a facile scribe or speaker, able to create, relate, formulate or
postulate any truth, axiomatic, sophistry subtle, or, in other words, I
can narrate--
ROBIN: Verily Sir Windbag thou dost, to narrate, thyself with wind
inflate, and, being thus thyself inflate of air, thou dost thyself deflate
of airy sounds which be words o' wind, and windy words is emptiness--thus
by thy inflatings and deflatings cometh nought but wind bred o' wind, and
nought is nothing, so nought is thy relation or narration; whereof make
now a cessation, so will I, in due form, formulate, postulate and
deliberate.
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