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minister in such elegancies. (Gives the wreath, and then, as she is raising it, uncovers the other bust of her Lord.) Put it on; put it on, my Lady. This is also the bust of the real poet who penned that delectable sonnet, and must not be defrauded of its due.

I can bear such provoking insults no longer.

Devil take it! You have scratched my face with your twigs.

I wish they had all been thorn and bramble for your sake. (Turns away indignantly.)

My dear Lady Worrymore! how can you take it so much to heart?

And you too, Madam, have been in the plot against me. A very becoming occupation for a neighbour and a friend!

My dear Ma'am! was it possible for us to