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are yourself concerned: you always appeared to me a good and amiable man, and a most tender and elegant poet.

Bar. Of which. Madam, you always took great care to inform me, as a sincere and disinterested friend.

Liv. Ha! what is all this? Poo, poo, take your places together as usual: a love-quarrel never mars merry-making.

Walt. Yes, tender doves! let them smooth down their ruffled feathers by one another as sweetly as they can. Why should you, Madam, give yourself any uneasiness about it?—But the Count, methinks, is less sprightly than usual: there are no more love-quarrels, I hope, in the party.

Liv. (looking at Vald.) Indeed you are very silent: I have been too much occupied to observe it before. You don't like my grotto, I fear.

Vald. Pardon me; I like it very well; I like it very much.

Liv. But this is not your usual manner of expressing approbation.

Vald. Is it not? you do me honour to remember it. (Speaking confusedly as the company sit down to table.) My spirits are very—that is to say, not altogether, but considerably—

Dart. Low, Valdemere?

Vald. (snatching up a glass, and filling a bumper of wine, which he swallows hastily.) No, Dartz; light as a feather. My tongue was so