« AnkstesnisTęsti »
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).
OT young, I think.
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 am wrong again. I thought
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:
Becoming, rather,-edged with green,'
Roses in yellow, Thorns between.
'Quick! Bring me that!' 'Tis brought. 'Comblete,
Divine, Enchanting, Tasteful, Neat,'
In all the Tones. And this you call—?' """ILL-NATURE," Madame. It fits all."