The Lady.
Ah! poor sins, how stern
The judge! I knew ye not for sins—I learn
For the first time that ye are evil. Go,
Avaunt ye! So my races are a woe—
Alas! And David Garrick!—Where’s the harm
In David?
The Maiden.
I know not the gentleman.
The Lady.
Nay, he’s a play; a comedy so warm,
So pitiful, that, let those laugh who can,
I weep. And must I yield my crystal glass,
Dewy with ice, and fragrant with rare wine,
That makes a dreary dinner-party pass
In rosy light, where after-fancies shine—
Things that one might have said?—And then the dance,
The valse à deux temps, if your partner chance
To be a lover—
The Maiden.
Madam, pray excuse
My seeming rudeness; but I must refuse
To dwell on themes like these.
The Lady.