TRI. Then the sonnet seems to you….
PHI. Admirable, new; and never did any one make anything more beautiful.
BEL. (to HENRIETTE). What! my niece, you listen to what has been read without emotion! You play there but a sorry part!
HEN. We each of us play the best part we can, my aunt, and to be a wit does not depend on our will.
TRI. My verses, perhaps, are tedious to you.
HEN. No. I do not listen.
PHI. Ah! let us hear the epigram.
TRI. ON A CARRIAGE OF THE COLOUR OF AMARANTH GIVEN TO ONE OF HIS LADY FRIENDS. [2]
PHI. His titles have always something rare in them.
ARM. They prepare one for a hundred flashes of wit.