The Lady.
A pretty face!
Pierrot.
For something tarter set thy wits to search—
"She loves the churchman better than the church."
The Lady.
Her blush is charming; would it were her own!
Pierrot.
Madame is merciless!
The Lady.
Is that the tone?
Pierrot.
The very tone: I swear thou lackest naught.
Madame was evidently bred at Court.
The Lady.
Thou speakest glibly: 'tis not of thine age.
Pierrot.
I listened much, as best becomes a page.
The Lady.
I like thy Court but little ——
Pierrot.
Hush! the Queen!
Bow, but not low—thou knowest what I mean.