PROF. PHIL. No, Sir. Whatever is not prose is verse; and whatever is not verse is prose.
MR. JOUR. And when we speak, what is that, then?
PROF. PHIL. Prose.
MR. JOUR. What! When I say, "Nicole, bring me my slippers, and give me my night-cap," is that prose?
PROF. PHIL. Yes, Sir.
MR. JOUR. Upon my word, I have been speaking prose these forty years without being aware of it; and I am under the greatest obligation to you for informing me of it. Well, then, I wish to write to her in a letter, Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love; but I would have this worded in a genteel manner, and turned prettily.
PROF. PHIL. Say that the fire of her eyes has reduced your heart to ashes; that you suffer day and night for her tortures….
MR. JOUR. No, no, no; I don't want any of that. I simply wish for what I tell you. Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love.
PROF. PHIL. Still, you might amplify the thing a little?
MR. JOUR. No, I tell you, I will have nothing but those very words in the letter; but they must be put in a fashionable way, and arranged as they should be. Pray show me a little, so that I may see the different ways in which they can be put.