"The Nectar quickly pour,—
The Nectar, Hebe, pour!'

(No sound. I'll tap once more.)

(Sings again.)

"Then came the Sire Apollo,
He passed you where you lay;
Come, Dian, rise and follow
The dappled Hart to slay,-
The rapid Hart to slay.""
(A rustling within.)

(Coquette! She heard before.)

(Sings again.)

"And urchin Cupid after
Beside the Pillow curled,
He whispered you with Laughter,
'Awake and witch the World,—
O Venus, witch the World!'"

(Now comes the last. "Tis scarcely worse, I think, than Monsieur l'ABBÉ's verse.)

"So waken, waken, waken,

O You, whom we adore;
Where Gods can be mistaken,
Mere Mortals must be more,-
Poor Mortals must be more!"

(That merits an encore.)

"So waken, waken, waken!
O YOU, whom we adore!

(An energetic VOICE.)

"Tis thou, ANTOINE?

Ah, Addle-pate!

Ah, Thief of Valet, always late!

Have I not told thee half-past eight

A thousand times!

(Great agitation.)

But wait, but wait,

M. L'ÉTOILE (stupefied).

Just Skies! What hideous roar !—
What lungs! The infamous Soubrette!
This is a turn I sha'n't forget:—
To make me sing my chansonnette
Before old JOURDAIN's door!

(Retiring slowly.)

And yet, and yet,-it can't be she.
They prompted her. Who can it be?

(A second VOICE.)

IT WAS THE ABBÉ TI--RI—LI !

(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.

HORTENSE. ARMANDE. MONSIEUR LOYAL.

HORTENSE (behind her fan).

NOT young, I think.

ARMANDE (raising her eye-glass).

And faded, too!

Quite faded! Monsieur, what say you?

M. LOYAL.

Nay, I defer to you. In truth,
To me she seems all grace and youth.

HORTENSE.

Graceful? You think it?

What, with hands

That hang like this (with a gesture).

Is odious simply! JACOTOT
Did not supply that lace, I know;
And where, I ask, has mortal seen
A hat unfeathered!

HORTENSE.

Edged with green!!

"Myrtilla (lest a Scandal rise
The Lady's Name I thus disguise),
Dying of Ennui, once decided-

Much on Resource herself she prided-
To choose a Hat. Forthwith she flies
On that momentous Enterprise.
Whether to Petit or Legros,

I know not: only this I know ;-
Head-dresses then, of any Fashion,
Bore Names of Quality or Passion.
Myrtilla tried them, almost all:

'Prudence,' she felt, was somewhat small;

'Retirement' seemed the Eyes to hide;

'Content,' at once, she cast aside.

Simplicity,'-'twas out of Place;

'Devotion,' for an older Face;

Briefly, Selection smaller grew,

'Vexatious!' odious!—none would do!

Then, on a Sudden, she espied

One that she thought she had not tried: