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I thank thee, my good fellow. Thou art as kind as ever, and as simple, too, methinks; but how comes it that thy bust, as they tell me, is to be crowned with laurel for that sonnet of thine, which Fanny, to say the honest truth, has not praised much.

How so? Not praised much. Ha! ha! ha! maiden prudery: just as it should be.

It may be so; but she generally speaks as she thinks.

Not praised it much! What faults does she find with it?

There was something at the beginning, I forget what, which she said was very bad; and all that ball-room, bank, and bower business in the last line, she thinks is but wordy and cumbersome.

Poo! poo! poo! all maiden prudery, Colonel. She will not—she will not be pleased with the poetry of a young fellow.