That sly listeners never hear good of themselves,
It could ne'er have been you to whose praise I sung out:
But I see by that smile that there lingers a doubt,
And you still think 'tis you from the kind of description.
Well, 'tis true you seem made after such a prescription;
But it does not do justice, as I can assure ye.
I'll remand you till eve, when assemble the jury,
And then if this gown that I've bought you'll appear in,
The verdict of guilty I'm certain of hearing:
For all of your guests will of envy be dying,—