JU. I see that you make yourself out much more ill--used than you
need; but it is the way with you poets to tell falsehoods in cold
blood, and to pretend that those you love are much more cruel than
they are, in order to make them correspond to the fancies you may take
into your heads. Yet, I should like you, if you will, to give me those
verses in writing.

VISC. No, it is enough that I have repeated them to you, and I ought
to stop there. A man may be foolish enough to make verses, but that is
different from giving them to others.

JU. It is in vain for you to affect a false modesty; your wit is well
known, and I do not see why you should hide what you write.

VISC. Ah! we must tread here with the greatest circumspection. It is a
dangerous thing to set up for a wit. There is inherent to it a certain
touch of absurdity which is catching, and we should be warned by the
example of some of our friends.

JU. Nonsense, Cleante; I see that, in spite of all you say, you are
longing to give me your verses; and I feel sure that you would be very
unhappy if I pretended not to care for them.

VISC. I unhappy? Oh! dear no, I am not so much of a poet for you to
think that I ... but here is the Countess of Escarbagnas; I'll go by
this door, so as not to meet her, and will see that everything is got
ready for the play I have promised you.