“How do you know that my friend can write poetry?”
“Admit that he is the author of the six lines which you wrote in answer to mine.”
“I cannot possibly admit such a falsehood, because, good or bad, they were of my own making, and so as to leave you no doubt let me convince you of it at once.”
“Oh, never mind! I believe you, and let us go to bed, or Love will call out the god of Parnassus.”
“Let him do it, but take this pencil and write; I am Apollo, you may be Love.”
‘Je ne me battrai pas; je te cede la place. Si Venus est ma soeur, L’Amour est de ma race. Je sais faire des vers. Un instant de perdu N’offense pas L’Amour, si je l’ai convaincu.
“It is on my knees that I entreat your pardon, my heavenly friend, but how could I expect so much talent in a young daughter of Venice, only twenty-two years of age, and, above all, brought up in a convent?”
“I have a most insatiate desire to prove myself more and more worthy of you. Did you think I was prudent at the gaming-table?”
“Prudent enough to make the most intrepid banker tremble.”
“I do not always play so well, but I had taken you as a partner, and I felt I could set fortune at defiance. Why would you not play?”