Take an example. Ptolemy the son of Lagus brought two novelties to Egypt—a completely black Bactrian camel and a man of two colours, half jet-black and half dazzlingly white, the colours equally divided. He assembled the Egyptians in the theatre, where he put on a lot of other shows for them and lastly this, the black camel and the half-white man, thinking to amaze them by the spectacle. The spectators however took fright at the camel and all but jumped up and ran away—and that though the camel was adorned all over with gold and draped in sea-purple and the bridle was set with gems, the treasure of some Darius or Cambyses or Cyrus himself. As for the man, most of them laughed, but some were disgusted as at a monstrosity. So when Ptolemy realised that he got no credit in their eyes and the Egyptians did not admire the novelty but set more store on beauty of form and line, he sent them away and esteemed them no longer as before. The camel died through neglect, and the half-and-half man he presented to Thespis the pipe-player for playing prettily at a carousal.

I am afraid that my work too is a camel in Egypt and people admire its bridle and its sea-purple, since even the combination of those two very fine creations, dialogue and comedy, is not enough for beauty of form if the blending lacks harmony and symmetry. The synthesis of two fine things can be a freak—the hippocentaur is an obvious example: you would not call this creature charming, rather a monstrosity, to go by the paintings of their drunken orgies and murders. Well then, can nothing beautiful come from the synthesis of two things of high quality, as the mixture of wine and honey is exceedingly pleasant? Yes, certainly. But I cannot maintain that this is the case with my two: I’m afraid that the beauty of each has been lost in the blending.