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SSUME that we are friends. Assume
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
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 BARON (her cousin and suitor).
THE COUNTESS (looking up from her work).
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.