Her Father (solemnly). He was a beautiful Man—a beautiful Poet.
The A. G. I know—but the expression, it's real saint-like!
Father (slowly). Well, I guess if he'd had any different kind of expression, he wouldn't have written the things he did write, and that's a fact!
A Moralising Old Lady (at Case O). No. 1260. "Ball of Worsted wound by William Cowper, the poet, for Mrs. Unwin." No. 1261. "Netting done by William Cowper, the poet." How very nice, and what a difference in the habit of literary persons nowadays, my dear!
IN THE CENTRAL HALL.
Mr. Whiterose, a Jacobite fin de siècle, is seated on a Bench beside a Seedy Stranger.
The S. S. (half to himself). Har, well, there's one comfort, these 'ere Guelphs'll get notice to quit afore we're much older!
Mr. Whiterose (surprised). You say so? Then you too are of the Young England Party! I am rejoiced to hear it. You cheer me; it is a sign that the good Cause is advancing.
The S. S. Advancin'? I believe yer. Why, I know a dozen and more as are workin' 'art and soul for it!
Mr. W. You do? We are making strides, indeed! Our England has suffered these usurpers too long.