Thi. (reads).
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"I know not if you doubt that my love be sincere, Yet this I know, that my heart every moment Longs to leave its sorry apartment To visit yours, with fond respect and fear. After all this, having my love in hand, And my honour, of superfine brand, You ought, in turn, I say, Content to be a countess gay, To cast that tigress' skin away, Which hides your charms both night and day." |
Visc. I am undone by Mr. Thibaudier.
Coun. Do not make fun of it; for the verses are good although they are country verses.
Visc. I, Madam, make fun of it! Though he is my rival, I think his verses admirable. I do not call them, like you, two strophes merely; but two epigrams, as good as any of Martial's.
Coun. What! Does Martial make verses? I thought he only made gloves.
Thi. It is not that Martial, Madam, but an author who lived thirty or forty years ago.[6]
Visc. Mr. Thibaudier has read the authors, as you see. But, Madam, we shall see if my comedy, with its interludes and dances, will counteract in your mind the progress which the two strophes have made.
Coun. My son the Count must be one of the spectators, for he came this morning from my country-seat, with his tutor, whom I see here.