The Guinea-hen
Will spread his tail for us! He has expressed his amiable willingness so far to favour us.
[The company falls into groups of spectators, the outlandish Cocks forming a wreath around their patron.]
The Peacock
[Preparing to spread his tail.] I am, by precious natural gift, in addition to my multifarious accomplishments something of a—shall I say artist in firework?
The Guinea-hen
[Effervescently.] Yes!
The Peacock
No. Pyrotechnist. For the choicest piece in urban gardens, where Catharine-wheels on festival nights spurt sidereal spray, and rockets shot into gold-riddled skies fall back in prismatic showers, is less sapphirine, smaragdine, cuprine—
Chantecler
Zounds!
The Peacock
—than, I venture to say, ladies, am I —
The Pheasant-hen
Oh, I understood that last word!
The Peacock
—when I unfurl the union of fan, jewel-case, and screen, upon which I offer to the self-same sunbeams that redden the reed all the joyous gems you now may contemplate!
Chantecler
What a silly bill!