Malagate the Woe avers that he hopes to assist me. Confusion fills my brain; I fear rot in the synapses: for I cannot recall beseeching his aid. More, the proffered hand of aid wears the spiked glove of criticism. Who aids by wounding?

Perhaps, Malagate, I should offer my aid to you--indeed, offer and give it, without request, without consideration of the welcome that it will receive. Perhaps not. But you can now assist me by ceasing to offer your advice, which I find is worth the sequin I spent on it.