TRI. Your approbation may serve it as a mother.
SCENE II.--HENRIETTE, PHILAMINTE, ARMANDE, BÉLISE, TRISSOTIN, LÉPINE.
PHI. (_to_ HENRIETTE, _who is going away_). Stop! why do you run away?
HEN. I fear to disturb such sweet intercourse.
PHI. Come nearer, and with both ears share in the delight of hearing wonders.
HEN. I have little understanding for the beauties of authorship, and witty things are not in my line.
PHI. No matter. Besides, I wish afterwards to tell you of a secret which you must learn.
TRI. (_to_ HENRIETTE). Knowledge has nothing that can touch you, and your only care is to charm everybody.
HEN. One as little as the other, and I have no wish....
BEL. Ah! let us think of the new-born babe, I beg of you.
PHI. (_to_ LÉPINE). Now, little page, bring some seats for us to sit down. (LÉPINE _slips down_.) You senseless boy, how can you fall down after having learnt the laws of equilibrium?
BEL. Do you not perceive, ignorant fellow, the causes of your fall, and that it proceeds from your having deviated from the fixed point which we call the centre of gravity?
LEP. I perceived it, Madam, when I was on the ground.
PHI. (_to_ LÉPINE, _who goes out_). The awkward clown!
TRI. It is fortunate for him that he is not made of glass.
PHI. Serve us quickly your admirable feast.
TRI. To satisfy, the great hunger which is here shown to me, a dish of eight verses seems but little; and I think that I should do well to join to the epigram, or rather to the madrigal, the ragout of a sonnet which, in the eyes of a princess, was thought to have a certain delicacy in it. It is throughout seasoned with Attic salt, and I think you will find the taste of it tolerably good.
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.
BEL. (_to_ HENRIETTE). Be silent, my niece.
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 Molière'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 à Mademoiselle de Longueville, à présent Duchesse de Nemours, sur sa fièvre quarte_. As, of necessity, the translation given above is not very literal, I append the original.