Its plumage and its graceful shape behold,
And see how Nature works in Beauty’s mould.
MRS. A.
I see my temper you’re disposed to try,
Yet I may be lamented when I die;
Speak as you please, you’re safe from my complaints,
But you’re enough to vex a saint of saints.
MR. A.
My dear, you’re waxing wroth.
MRS. A. (going.)