Nay, but your looks are grave! That measured speech Betokened matter that will waken us.-- Is it some piquant cruelty of his? Or other tickling horror from abroad The packet has brought in? GENTLEMAN The treaty's signed! MINISTER Whereby the parties mutually agree To knit in union and in general league All outraged Europe. LADY So to knit sounds well; But how ensure its not unravelling? MINISTER Well; by the terms. There are among them these: Five hundred thousand active men in arms Shall strike [supported by the Britannic aid In vessels, men, and money subsidies] To free North Germany and Hanover From trampling foes; deliver Switzerland, Unbind the galled republic of the Dutch, Rethrone in Piedmont the Sardinian King, Make Naples sword-proof, un-French Italy From shore to shore; and thoroughly guarantee A settled order to the divers states; Thus rearing breachless barriers in each realm Against the thrust of his usurping hand. SPIRIT OF THE YEARS They trow not what is shaping otherwhere The while they talk this stoutly! SPIRIT OF RUMOUR Bid me go And join them, and all blandly kindle them By bringing, ere material transit can, A new surprise! SPIRIT OF THE YEARS Yea, for a moment, wouldst. [The Spirit of Rumour enters the apartment in the form of a personage of fashion, newly arrived. He advances and addresses the group.] SPIRIT The Treaty moves all tongues to-night.--Ha, well-- So much on paper! GENTLEMAN What on land and sea? You look, old friend, full primed with latest thence. SPIRIT Yea, this. The Italy our mighty pact Delivers from the French and Bonaparte Makes haste to crown him!--Turning from Boulogne He speeds toward Milan, there to glory him In second coronation by the Pope, And set upon his irrepressible brow Lombardy's iron crown. [The Spirit of Rumour mingles with the throng, moves away, and disappears.] LADY Fair Italy, Alas, alas! LORD Yet thereby English folk Are freed him.--Faith, as ancient people say, It's an ill wind that blows good luck to none! MINISTER Who is your friend that drops so airily This precious pinch of salt on our raw skin? GENTLEMAN Why, Norton. You know Norton well enough? MINISTER Nay, 'twas not he. Norton of course I know. I thought him Stewart for a moment, but--- LADY But I well scanned him--'twas Lord Abercorn; For, said I to myself, “O quaint old beau, To sleep in black silk sheets so funnily:-- That is, if the town rumour on't be true.” LORD My wig, ma'am, no! 'Twas a much younger man. GENTLEMAN But let me call him! Monstrous silly this, That don't know my friends!