did ever produce;—the myrtles for the other culled in the valley of Vaucluse itself. Indeed they are not worthy of their high destination.
LORD WORRYMORE.
But from your fair hands, my Lady, is there either orator or poet who would not prize a garland of the simplest herbs?
BLOUNT.
Yes, saintfoin, buttercups, or any thing.
LADY WORRYMORE.
O, Mr. O'Honikin! could anyone but yourself, undervaluing your own excellence, have talked of this touching solemnity! O dear! what shall I say? My heart pants within me! Tears are forcing their way into my eyes! (Laying one hand on her breast affectedly, and the other on her eyes.)
BLOUNT (aside toLady Shrewdly).
Forced work, indeed, I believe.
LORD WORRYMORE (toLady Shrewdly).
She is really touched. This is very amiable, my dear cousin.
LADY SHREWDLY.
Assuredly, my Lord, she has a true feeling of the honours belonging to genius.
