Yea, thou art one of hers! But, ere this night, Often I watched my sisters take their flight Down heaven's stairway of the clustered stars To gaze on mortals through their lattice bars; And some in sleep they woo with dreams of bliss Too shadowy to tell, and some they kiss. But all to whom they come, my sisters say, Forthwith forget all joyance of the day, Forget their laughter and forget their tears, And dream away with singing all their years-- Moon-lovers always! [_She sighs._] PIERROT. Why art sad, sweet Moon? [_Laughs._] THE LADY. For this, my story, grant me now a boon. PIERROT. I am thy servitor. THE LADY. Would, then, I knew More of the earth, what men and women do. PIERROT. I will explain. THE LADY. Let brevity attend Thy wit, for night approaches to its end. PIERROT. Once was I a page at Court, so trust in me: That's the first lesson of society. THE LADY. Society? PIERROT. I mean the very best Pardy! thou wouldst not hear about the rest. I know it not, but am a petit maître At rout and festival and bal champêtre. But since example be instruction's ease, Let's play the thing.--Now, Madame, if you please! [_He helps her to rise, and leads her forward: then he kisses her hand, bowing over it with a very courtly air._] THE LADY. What am I, then? PIERROT. A most divine Marquise! Perhaps that attitude hath too much ease. [_Passes her._] Ah, that is better! To complete the plan, Nothing is necessary save a fan. THE LADY. Cool is the night, what needs it? PIERROT. Madame, pray Reflect, it is essential to our play. THE LADY [_taking a lily_]. Here is my fan! PIERROT. So, use it with intent: The deadliest arm in beauty's armament! THE LADY. What do we next? PIERROT. We talk! THE LADY. But what about? PIERROT. We quiz the company and praise the rout; Are polished, petulant, malicious, sly, Or what you will, so reputations die. Observe the Duchess in Venetian lace, With the red eminence. THE LADY. A pretty face! PIERROT. For something tarter set thy wits to search-- "She loves the churchman better than the church." THE LADY. Her blush is charming; would it were her own! PIERROT. Madame is merciless! THE LADY. Is that the tone? PIERROT. The very tone: I swear thou lackest naught. Madame was evidently bred at Court. THE LADY. Thou speakest glibly: 'tis not of thine age. PIERROT. I listened much, as best becomes a page. THE LADY. I like thy Court but little-- PIERROT. Hush! the Queen! Bow, but not low--thou knowest what I mean. THE LADY. Nay, that I know not! PIERROT. Though she wears a crown, 'Tis from La Pompadour one fears a frown. THE LADY.