Congreve, William, 1670-1729 / 2008-07-04 00:00:00
I confess I write but seldom, but
when I do--keen iambics, i'gad. But my lord was telling me your
ladyship has made an essay toward an heroic poem.
LADY FROTH. Did my lord tell you? Yes, I vow, and the subject is
my lord's love to me. And what do you think I call it? I dare
swear you won't guess--THE SILLABUB, ha, ha, ha.
BRISK. Because my lord's title's Froth, i'gad, ha, ha, ha, deuce
take me, very e propos and surprising, ha, ha, ha.
LADY FROTH. He, ay, is not it? And then I call my lord Spumoso;
and myself, what d'ye think I call myself?
BRISK. Lactilla, may be,--i'gad, I cannot tell.
LADY FROTH. Biddy, that's all; just my own name.
BRISK. Biddy! I'gad, very pretty. Deuce take me if your ladyship
has not the art of surprising the most naturally in the world. I
hope you'll make me happy in communicating the poem.
LADY FROTH. Oh, you must be my confidant, I must ask your advice.
BRISK. I'm your humble servant, let me perish. I presume your
ladyship has read Bossu?
LADY FROTH. Oh yes, and Racine, and Dacier upon Aristotle and
Horace. My lord, you must not be jealous, I'm communicating all to
Mr. Brisk.
LORD FROTH.
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