Vapid. I'll tell you,—write a play,—and, bad as it may possibly be, say it's a translation from the French, and interweave a few compliments on the English, and, my life on't, it does wonders.—Do it, and say you had the thought from me.
Lady. Sir, do you mean to deride me?
Vapid. No.—But only be cautious in your style—women are in general apt to indulge that pruriency and warm luxuriancy of fancy they possess,—but do be careful—be decent—if you are not, I have done with you.
Lady. Sir, I desire you'll be more respectful.—I don't understand it at all.
[Rising.
Enter Marianne.
Vapid. Then here comes one that will explain every thing.
"There's in her all that we believe of Heaven;
Amazing brightness, purity, and truth,
Eternal joy, and everlasting love!"
My dear sweet little partner, I rejoice to see you!
Mari. And, my dear sweet Mr Poet, I rejoice to see you!