Thou art a lad of taste and letters grown:
Would'st poetry admire, and ape thy master.
Go, go; my little spaniels are unkempt;
My cards unwritten, and my china broke:
Thou art too learned for a lady's page.
Did I not bid thee call Theresa here?
Page. Madam, she comes.
Enter Theresa, carrying a robe over her arm.
Lady to Ther. What has employ'd you all this dreary while?
I've waited long.
Ther.Madam, the robe is finish'd.
Lady. Well, let me see it.
(Theresa spreads out the robe.)
(Impatiently to the Page.) Boy, hast thou ne'er a hand to lift that fold?
See where it hangs.
(Page takes the other side of the robe, and spreads it out to its full extent before her, whilst she sits down and looks at it with much dissatisfaction.)
Ther. Does not my lady like this easy form?
Lady. That sleeve is all awry.
Ther.Your pardon, madam;
'Tis but the empty fold that shades it thus.
I took the pattern from a graceful shape;
The Lady Jane De Monfort wears it so.
Lady. Yes, yes, I see 'tis thus with all of you.
Whate'er she wears is elegance and grace,
