"
HELEN. What is the book?
MODUS. Tis "Ovid's Art of Love."
HELEN. That Ovid was a fool.
MODUS. In what?
HELEN. In that.
To call that thing an art which art is none.
She strikes the book from his hand, and reproves him for reading in
the presence of a lady.
MODUS. Right you say,
And well you served me, cousin, so to strike
The volume from my hand. I own my fault:
So please you--may I pick it up again?
I'll put it in my pocket.
It is the misfortune of the "book of the play" to be much maltreated
by the _dramatis personae_. It is now flung away, now torn, now struck
to earth; the property-master, it may be, watching its fate from the
side-wings--anxious not so much because of its contents or intrinsic
value, as on account of the gaudy cover his art has supplied it with,
and the pains he must take to repair any injuries it may receive in
the course of the performance.
CHAPTER XX.
"HALF-PRICE AT NINE O'CLOCK."
The plan of admitting the public to the theatres at "half-price,"
after the conclusion of a certain portion of the entertainments of the
evening, has, of late years, gone out of fashion.
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