BARON.
But I want prose on this occasion, and command you to give me nothing else. [Butler bows.] Have you heard of an engagement which Count Cassel is under to any other woman than my daughter?
BUTLER.
I am to tell your honour in prose?
BARON.
Certainly. [Butler appears uneasy and loath to speak.] Amelia, he does not like to divulge what he knows in presence of a third person—leave the room. [Exit Amelia.
BUTLER.
No, no—that did not cause my reluctance to speak.
BARON.
What then?
BUTLER.
Your not allowing me to speak in verse—for here is the poetic poem. [Holding up a paper.]
BARON.
How dare you presume to contend with my will? Tell in plain language all you know on the subject I have named.
BUTLER.
Well, then, my Lord, if you must have the account in quiet prose, thus it was—Phœbus, one morning, rose in the East, and having handed in the long-expected day, he called up his brother Hymen——
BARON.
Have done with your rhapsody.
BUTLER.
Ay; I knew you’d like it best in verse——