BELVIL
Though it be but a homely one.
MR. H. True, but come, I will shew you the house where dwells this credulous melting fair.
BELVIL
Ha, ha, my old friend dwindled down to one letter. [Exeunt.]
SCENE.—An Apartment in MELESINDA'S House.
MELESINDA sola, as if musing.
MELESINDA H.H.H. Sure it must be something precious by its being concealed. It can't be Homer, that is a Heathen's name; nor Horatio, that is no surname; what if it be Hamlet? the Lord Hamlet—pretty, and I his poor distracted Ophelia! No, 'tis none of these; 'tis Harcourt or Hargrave, or some such sounding name, or Howard, high born Howard, that would do; may be it is Harley, methinks my H. resembles Harley, the feeling Harley. But I hear him, and from his own lips I will once for ever be resolved.
Enter MR. H.
MR. H.
My dear Melesinda.
MELESINDA My dear H. that is all you give me power to swear allegiance to,—to be enamoured of inarticulate sounds, and call with sighs upon an empty letter. But I will know.
MR. H. My dear Melesinda, press me no more for the disclosure of that, which in the face of day so soon must be revealed. Call it whim, humour, caprice, in me. Suppose I have sworn an oath, never, till the ceremony of our marriage is over, to disclose my true name.