Here is my fan! Pierrot. So, use it with intent: The deadliest arm in beauty's armament! The Lady. What do we next? Pierrot. We talk! The Lady. But what about? Pierrot. We quiz the company and praise the rout; Are polished, petulant, malicious, sly, Or what you will, so reputations die. Observe the Duchess in Venetian lace, With the red eminence. The Lady. A pretty face! Pierrot. For something tarter set thy wits to search— "She loves the churchman better than the church." The Lady. Her blush is charming; would it were her own! Pierrot. Madame is merciless! The Lady. Is that the tone? Pierrot. The very tone: I swear thou lackest naught. Madame was evidently bred at Court. The Lady. Thou speakest glibly: 'tis not of thine age. Pierrot. I listened much, as best becomes a page. The Lady. I like thy Court but little— Pierrot. Hush! the Queen! Bow, but not low—thou knowest what I mean. The Lady. Nay, that I know not! Pierrot. Though she wears a crown, 'Tis from La Pompadour one fears a frown. The Lady. Thou art a child: thy malice is a game. Pierrot. A most sweet pastime—scandal is its name. The Lady. Enough, it wearies me. Pierrot. Then, rare Marquise, Desert the crowd to wander through the trees.

The Lady Monologue from A Dramatic Fantasy

Rehearse The Lady's monologue