"First comes the prologue, as I may say," the reader commences; "it is an address to his pen:
Wilt thou, advent'rous pen, describe
The gay, delightful silken tribe,
That maddens all our city;
Nor dread lest while you foolish claim
A near approach to beauty's flame,
Icarus fate may hit ye!"
The speaker pauses, and a great fluttering of fans ensues, with many admiring comments on the magnificent simile of Icarus.
The reader continues, daintily arranging his snowy frill. "Mark the fate of the bard," he says, and reads:
"With singèd pinions tumbling down,
The scorn and laughter of the town,
Thou'lt rue thy daring flight.
While every Miss, with cool contempt,
Affronted by the bold attempt,
Will, tittering, view thy plight."
"Tittering—observe the expressive phrase," says the reader. They all cry out at this.
"Tittering!"
"Ladies do not titter!"
"Really!"
"Tittering!"
The serene reader raises his hand, and, adjusting his wig, says:
"Mere poetic license, ladies; merely imagination; not fact. True, very true! ladies never titter—an abominable imputation. But, listen."
And he continues:
"Myrtilla's beauties who can paint,
The well-turned form, the glowing teint,
May deck a common creature;
