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(In a mocking falsetto.) "Where Gods can be mistaken, Mere Poets must be more,BAD POETS must be more."
THE CAP THAT FITS.
“Qui sème épines n'aille déchaux."
SCENE. A Salon with blue and white Panels. Outside, Persons pass and re-pass upon a Terrace.
ARMANDE. MONSIEUR LOYAL.
HORTENSE (behind her fan).
ARMANDE (raising her eye-glass).
And faded, too!
Quite faded! Monsieur, what say you?
Nay, I defer to you. In truth,
Graceful? You think it? What, with hands
And how she stands
Nay,-I an am wrong again. I thought Her air delightfully untaught!
But you amuse me—
Still her dress,
Her dress at least, you must confess→→→
Is odious simply! JACOTOT
Did not supply that lace, I know
"Myrtilla (lest a Scandal rise
'Content' at once she cast aside.
One that she thought she had not tried:
'Quick! Bring me that!' 'Tis brought. Complete, Divine, Enchanting, Tasteful, Neat,'
In all the Tones. And this you call-?' "ILL-NATURE," Madame. It fits all.'