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; maybe it is Harley, methinks my H. resembles Harley, the feeling Harley. But I hear him! and from his own lips I will once forever 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 enamored 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, humor, caprice, in me. Suppose, I have sworn an oath, never, till the ceremony of our marriage is over, to disclose my true name.
Melesinda. Oh! H, H, H. I cherish here a fire of restless curiosity which consumes me. 'Tis appetite, passion, call it whim, caprice, in me. Suppose I have sworn, I must and will know it this very night.
Mr. H. Ungenerous Melesinda! I implore you to give me this one proof of your confidence. The holy vow once past, your H. shall not have a secret to withhold.
Melesinda. My H. has overcome: his Melesinda shall pine away and die, before she dare express a saucy inclination; but what shall I call you till we are married?
Mr. H. Call me? call me anything, call me Love, Love! ay Love: Love will do very well.