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16 You do me too great honour…

Nay, hold your peace, Mæcenas that you are!

True, these gentlemen employ me…

On credit

He is himself a poet of a pretty talent…

So they tell me.

—Mad after poetry!

'Tis true that, for a little ode…

You give a tart…

Oh!—a tartlet!

Brave fellow! he would fain excuse himself!

—And for a triolet, now, did you not give in exchange…