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provoking verses! they haunted me the whole night. (Baron bows.) But don't think I am going to talk to you of their beauties—those tender easy graces which they possess, in common with every thing that comes from your pen: I am going to tell you of their defects. You know well my friendship for you, my dear Baron, makes me sometimes severe.

Bar. (aside to Walt.) There now, you churl, do you call this flattery? (Aloud.) My dear Countess, your severity is kindness.

Countess. Receive it then as such; for indeed I must be very severe on the two last lines of the second stanza, which have disturbed me exceedingly. In the verses of an ordinary poet I should not find fault with them; but in a work where every thing besides is easy, harmonious, and correct, the slightest defect is conspicuous; and I must positively insist on your altering them, though you should hate me for being so fastidious.

Bar. (aside to Walt.) There now, ungracious canker-tongue, do you call this hypocrisy? (Aloud.) Madam, I kiss the rod in so fair and so friendly a hand. Nay, it is a sceptre, to which I bow with devotion.

Countess. (to Walt.) You see, good Sir, I take great liberties with the Baron, as, I doubt not, with the privilege of a brother, you yourself sometimes do.

Walt. Yes, Madam, but my way of finding