Lady Car. To read that? My dear Sir Simon! all that Hebrew, upon parchment as thick as a board!—I came to see if you had any of the last novels in your book room.
Sir Simon. The last novels!—most of the female new school are ghost bitten, they tell me. [Aside.] There's Fielding's Works; and you'll find Tom Jones, you know.
Lady Car. Psha! that's such a hack!
Sir Simon. A hack, Lady Caroline, that the knowing ones have warranted sound.
Lady Car. But what do you think of those that have had such a run lately?
Sir Simon. Why, I think most of them have run too much, and want firing.
[Exeunt Sir Simon, and Lord Fitz Balaam.
Lady Car. I shall die of ennui, in this moping manor house!—Shall I read to-day?—no, I'll walk.—No, I'll——Yes, I'll read first, and walk afterwards. [Rings the Bell, and takes a Book.]—Pope.—Come, as there are no novels, this may be tolerable. This is the most triste house I ever saw!
[Sits down and reads.
"In these deep solitudes, and awful cells,
Where heavenly-pensive—"