After all this, having my love in hand,
And my honour, of superfine brand,
You ought, in turn, I say,
Content to be a countess gay,
To cast that tigress' skin away,
Which hides your charms both night and day."

VISC. I am undone by Mr. Thibaudier.

COUN. Do not make fun of it; for the verses are good although they are
country verses.

VISC. I, Madam, make fun of it! Though he is my rival, I think his
verses admirable. I do not call them, like you, two strophes merely;
but two epigrams, as good as any of Martial's.

COUN. What! Does Martial make verses? I thought he only made gloves.

THI. It is not that Martial, Madam, but an author who lived thirty or
forty years ago.[Footnote: The Martial who _did not write
verses_, sold perfumery, and was valet-de-chambre to the king's
brother. Martial, the Roman epigrammatist, lived in the first century
after Christ.]

VISC. Mr. Thibaudier has read the authors, as you see. But, Madam, we
shall see if my comedy, with its interludes and dances, will
counteract in your mind the progress which the two strophes have made.

COUN. My son the Count must be one of the spectators, for he came this
morning from my country-seat, with his tutor, whom I see here.