BEL. It never ceases. (They sit down.)
PHI. Serve us quickly your admirable feast.
TRI. To satisfy, the great hunger which is here shown to me, a dish of eight verses seems but little; and I think that I should do well to join to the epigram, or rather to the madrigal, the ragout of a sonnet which, in the eyes of a princess, was thought to have a certain delicacy in it. It is throughout seasoned with Attic salt, and I think you will find the taste of it tolerably good.
ARM. Ah! I have no doubt of it.
PHI. Let us quickly give audience.
BEL. (interrupting TRISSOTIN each time he is about to read). I feel, beforehand, my heart beating for joy. I love poetry to distraction, particularly when the verses are gallantly turned.
PHI. If we go on speaking he will never be able to read.
TRI. SONN….
BEL. (to HENRIETTE). Be silent, my niece.
ARM. Ah! let him read, I beg.