human
Give me the tea, he grumbled.
gpt
Too sweet again, I dare say, like yesterday.
human
No sugar at all in it, Mr. Cornelius.
gpt
My dear Miss Fleming! Is it really you? You have condescended to visit the Workshop, and you find the Laborer asleep. I feel like a sentinel found slumbering at his post. Pray do not think--it is an accident quite novel to me--the exhaustion of continuous effort, I suppose.
human
I see books; I see a table; I see a blotting-pad: and---- She actually, to the Poet's horror, turned over the leaves of the stitched book, with Humphrey's ornamental title-page.
gpt
Not a word written. Where is your work, Mr. Cornelius?
human
I work at Poesy. That book, Miss Fleming, is for the reception of my great epic when it is completed. _Non omnis moriar._ There will be found in that blank book the structure of a lifetime. I shall live by a single work, like Homer.
gpt
What is it all about?