“Flung into the window of the hall, by a fellow who ran off at full speed,” answered Jerningham.
“This is a better text,” said the Duke; “and yet it is an old one too—three weeks old at least—The little Countess with the jealous lord—I should not care a farthing for her, save for that same jealous lord—Plague on’t, and he’s gone down to the country—this evening—in silence and safety—written with a quill pulled from the wing of Cupid—Your ladyship has left him pen-feathers enough to fly away with—better clipped his wings when you had caught him, my lady—And so confident of her Buckingham’s faith,—I hate confidence in a young person. She must be taught better—I will not go.”
“You Grace will not be so cruel!” said Jerningham.
“Thou art a compassionate fellow, Jerningham; but conceit must be punished.”
“But if your lordship should resume your fancy for her?”
“Why, then, you must swear the billet-doux miscarried,” answered the Duke. “And stay, a thought strikes me—it shall miscarry in great style. Hark ye—Is—what is the fellow’s name—the poet—is he yonder?”
“There are six gentlemen, sir, who, from the reams of paper in their pocket, and the threadbare seams at their elbows, appear to wear the livery of the Muses.”
“Poetical once more, Jerningham. He, I mean, who wrote the last lampoon,” said the Duke.
“To whom your Grace said you owed five pieces and a beating!” replied Jerningham.
“The money for his satire, and the cudgel for his praise—Good—find him—give him the five pieces, and thrust the Countess’s billet-doux—Hold—take Araminta’s and the rest of them—thrust them all into his portfolio—All will come out at the Wit’s Coffee-house; and if the promulgator be not cudgelled into all the colours of the rainbow, there is no spite in woman, no faith in crabtree, or pith in heart of oak—Araminta’s wrath alone would overburden one pair of mortal shoulders.”