Pod. A Letter,
But 'tis a womans, Sir, I know by the hand,
And the false Orthography, they write old Saxon.
Fred. May be her ghostly Mother's that instructs her.
Sor. No, 'tis a Cousins, and came up with a great Cake.
Fred. What's that?
Sor. A pair of Gloves the Dutchess gave her,
For so the outside says.
Fred. That other paper?
Sor. A Charm for the tooth-ach, here's nothing but Saints and Crosses.
Fre. Look in that Box, methinks that should hold secrets.
Pod. 'Tis Paint, and curls of Hair, she begins to exercise.
A glass of Water too, I would fain taste it,
But I am wickedly afraid 'twill silence me,
Never a Conduit-Pipe to convey this water.
Sor. These are all Rings, Deaths-heads, and such Memento's
Her Grandmother, and worm-eaten Aunts left to her,
To tell her what her Beauty must arrive at.