Butler.
There has never been a birth-day, nor wedding-day, nor chriſtening-day, celebrated in your family, in which I have not joined with the muſes in full chorus.—In forty-ſix years, three hundred and ninety-ſeven congratulations on different occaſions have dropped from my pen. To-day, the three hundred and ninety-eighth is coming forth;—for heaven has protected our noble maſter, who has been in great danger.
Amelia.
Danger! My father in danger! What do you mean?
Butler.
One of the gamekeepers has returned to inform the whole caſtle of a baſe and knaviſh trick, of which the world will talk, and my poetry hand down to poſterity.
Amelia.
What, what is all this ?
Butler.
The baron, my lord and maſter, in company with the ſtrange Count, had not been gone a mile beyond the lawn, when one of them——
Amelia.
What happened? Speak for heaven’s ſake.
Butler.
My verſe ſnall tell you.
Amelia.
No, no; tell us in proſe.
Anhalt.
Yes, in proſe.
Butler.
Ah, you have neither of you ever been in love, or you would prefer poetry to proſe. But excuſe
