And ladies, you know, my love, are reckoned better judges of poetry than speeches; though the present company, I believe, will reckon you rather a capricious, than a bad judge of either.
LADY WORRYMORE (holding her head to one side, and assuming an air of diffidence).
I feel,—what I ought to have acknowledged before,—that the tremour of my nerves has rendered me quite unfit, for the last twelve hours—O, much longer—to judge of any thing. It is better for me to take care of my own fragile frame, than to concern myself with what is, perhaps, beyond the power of my poor capacity.
BLOUNT.
Why, your Ladyship's capacity never showed itself more undoubtedly than on the present interesting occasion. Had you praised the speech which I had the honour of reading, as the composition of Lord Worrymore, the partiality of a wife might have been suspected.
LORD WORRYMORE.
Very true, he! he! he! Well urged, Blount.—And now, Mr. Clermont, come nearer to us, and witness the honour conferred on the writer of the sonnet.—My dear love! where is the other wreath?
