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Darting now here, now there, its pointed sting;
While he, impatient of the frequent smart,
Doth bound, and paw, and rear, and wince, and start,
    And scours across the plain.—But nought doth bring
Relief to his sharp torment;—So do I,
    Poor luckless wight! by Love's keen arrows gall'd,
From thee, my little pretty teazer-fly.
But, ah! in vain! there is in me no power
    To shake thee off; nor art thou ever pall'd
With this thy cruel sport, in ball-room, bank, or bower.

LADY WORRYMORE.

Delightful, delightful! I expected to be charmed with your sonnet, Mr. Clermont, but this outdoes all expectation.

CLERMONT.

And all patience at the same time, Madam.

LADY WORRYMORE.

Nay, don't let the modesty of genius suppose that we could possibly think it tedious. How delightful the lady must have been to whom that sonnet was addressed! A young lady, as the title gives notice.

CLERMONT.

The younger the better, I'm sure, for receiving such verses.

LORD WORRYMORE.

What does he say? Does his modesty shrink from praise?

CLERMONT.

My Lord, I can suffer this no longer; so