_Sp._ O dear, this o’er-discernment makes me smile. You don’t pretend to tell me you can see Without one touch of melting sympathy Those lovely, stately flowers that fill with bloom The brilliant season’s gay parterre-like room, Moving serene yet swiftly through the dances; Those graceful forms and perfect countenances, Whose every fold and line in all their dresses Something refined and exquisite expresses. To see them smile and hear them talk so sweetly, In me destroys all lower thoughts completely; I really seem, without exaggeration, To experience the true regeneration. One’s own dress, too—one’s manner, what one’s doing And saying, all assist to one’s renewing. I love to see, in these their fitting places, The bows, the forms, and all you call grimaces. I heartily could wish we’d kept some more of them, However much we talk about the bore of them. Fact is, your awkward parvenus are shy at it, Afraid to look like waiters if they try at it. ’Tis sad to what democracy is leading— Give me your Eighteenth Century for high breeding. Though I can put up gladly with the present, And quite can think our modern parties pleasant. One shouldn’t analyse the thing too nearly: The main effect is admirable clearly. ‘Good manners,’ said our great-aunts, ‘next to piety:’ And so my friend, hurrah for good society! SCENE IV.—_On the Piazza._ _Sp._ Insulted! by the living Lord! He laid his hand upon his sword. ‘_Fort_,’ did he say? a German brute, With neither heart nor brains to shoot. _Di._ What does he mean? he’s wrong, I had done nothing. ’Twas a mistake—more his, I am sure, than mine. He is quite wrong—I feel it. Come, let us go. _Sp._ Go up to him!—you must, that’s flat. Be threatened by a beast like that! _Di._ He’s violent: what can I do against him? I neither wish to be killed nor to kill: What’s more, I never yet have touched a sword, Nor fired, but twice, a pistol in my life. _Sp._ Oh, never mind, ’twon’t come to fighting— Only some verbal small requiting; Or give your card—we’ll do’t by writing. He’ll not stick to it. Soldiers too Are cowards, just like me or you. What! not a single word to throw at This snarling dog of a d——d Croat? _Di._ My heavens! why should I care? he does not hurt me. If he is wrong, it is the worst for him. I certainly did nothing: I shall go. _Sp._ Did nothing! I should think not; no, Nor ever will, I dare be sworn! But, O my friend, well-bred, well-born— You to behave so in these quarrels Makes me half doubtful of your morals! ...It were all one, You had been some shopkeeper’s son, Whose childhood ne’er was shown aught better Than bills of creditor and debtor.