A PROLOGUE. 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." 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, 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 COUNTESS. THE BARON (her cousin and suitor). THE COUNTESS (looking up from her work). ARON, you doze. BARON, THE BARON (closing his book). I, Madame? No. I wait your order-Stay or Go. THE COUNTESS. Which means, I think, that Go or Stay THE BARON. Excuse me,-By your favour graced, THE COUNtess. Or much the same. How keen you grow! You must be reading MARIVAUX. THE BARON. Nay, 'twas a song of SAINTE-Aulaire. THE COUNTESS. Then read me one. We've time to spare: If I can catch the clock-face there, 'Tis barely eight. THE BARON. What shall it be, A tale of woe, or perfidy? THE COUNTESS. Not woes, I beg. I doubt your woes: THE BARON (reads). "Ah, Phillis! cruel Phillis! "But when her Eyes she opened, (Although the Sun it shone,) She found the Shepherd had not stirred'Because the Light was gone!' Ah, Cupid! wanton Cupid! 'Twas ever thus your Way: When Maids would bid you ply your Wings, THE COUNTESS. Famous! He earned whate'er he got :- THE BARON (turning the page). I think not.-No. Unless 'tis this: THE COUNTESS. Now, that's a breach! Your bond is not to make a speech. |