Chapter 1612 of 1964 · 55 words · ~1 min read

XCIV.

If all these seem an heterogeneous mass To be assembled at a country seat, Yet think, a specimen of every class Is better than a humdrum tête-à-tête. The days of Comedy are gone, alas! When Congreve's fool could vie with Molière's _bête_: Society is smoothed to that excess, That manners hardly differ more than dress.