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COLONEL FRANKLAND.

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.

LORD WORRYMORE (now advancing to the front, and overhearing them).

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

COLONEL FRANKLAND.

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

LORD WORRYMORE.

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

COLONEL FRANKLAND.

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.

LORD WORRYMORE.

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