PHI. Let us quickly give audience.

BEL. (_interrupting_ TRISSOTIN _each time he is about to
read_). I feel, beforehand, my heart beating for joy. I love poetry
to distraction, particularly when the verses are gallantly turned.

PHI. If we go on speaking he will never be able to read.

TRI. SONN....

BEL. (_to_ HENRIETTE). Be silent, my niece.

ARM. Ah! let him read, I beg.

TRI. SONNET TO THE PRINCESS URANIA ON HER FEVER.[1]
_Your prudence fast in sleep's repose
Is plunged; if thus superbly kind,
A lodging gorgeously you can find
For the most cruel of your foes--_

[1]
[The sonnet is not of Moliere's invention, but is to be found in
_Les Oeuvres galantes en prose et en vers de M. Cotin_, Paris,
1663. It is called, _Sonnet a Mademoiselle de Longueville, a present
Duchesse de Nemours, sur sa fievre quarte_. As, of necessity, the
translation given above is not very literal, I append the original.

"Votre prudence est endormie,
De traiter magnifiquement,