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seemly minister in such elegancies. (Gives Lady Worrymore 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.

LADY WORRYMORE (dashing the wreath in his face).

I can bear such provoking insults no longer.

BLOUNT.

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

LADY WORRYMORE.

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

LADY SHREWDLY (following her soothingly).

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

LADY WORRYMORE.

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

LADY SHREWDLY.

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