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SSUME that we are friends. Assume A common taste for old costume, Old pictures,-books. Then dream us sitting,-Us two,-in some soft-lighted room.
Outside the wind;-the "ways are mire."
Finished the feast not full but fitting,
Silent at first, in time we glow;
Inspect engravings, 'twixt us passing The fancies of DETROY, MOREAU;
"Reveils" and "Couchers," "Balls" and "Fêtes";
Anon we glide to "crocks" and plates,
Grow eloquent on glaze and classing, And half-pathetic over states."
Then I produce my Prize, in truth ;—
And rare as Love. You pause, you wonder, (Pretend to doubt the marks, forsooth!)
And so we fall to why and how
The fragile figures smile and bow;
Divine, at length, the fable under
THE BALLAD À-LA-MODE.
"Tout vient à point à qui peut attendre."
SCENE. A Boudoir Louis-Quinze, painted with Cupids shooting at Butterflies.
THE COUNTESS. THE BARON (her cousin and suitor).
THE COUNTESS (looking up from her work).
BARON, you doze.
THE BARON (closing his book).
I, Madame? No.
I wait your order-Stay or Go.
Which means, I think, that Go or Stay
Excuse me,-By your favour graced,
Or much the same. How keen you grow!
You must be reading MARIVAUX.