Sir H. Pr'ythee, good metaphorical colonel, what d'ye mean?
Colonel S. Read, sir, read; these are the Sibyl's leaves, that will unfold your destiny.
Sir H. So it be not a false deed to cheat me of my estate, what care I—[Opening the Packet.] Humph! my hand!—To the Lady Lurewell—To the Lady Lurewell—To the Lady Lurewell—What the devil hast thou been tampering with, to conjure up these spirits?
Colonel S. A certain familiar of your acquaintance, sir. Read, read.
Sir H. [Reading.] Madam, my passion——so natural——your beauty contending——force of charms——mankind——eternal admirer, Wildair.—I ne'er was ashamed of my name before.
Colonel S. What, Sir Harry Wildair out of humour! ha! ha! ha! Poor Sir Harry! More glory in her smile than in the Jubilee at Rome; ha! ha! ha! But then her foot, Sir Harry; she dances to a miracle! ha! ha! ha! Fie, Sir Harry; a man of your parts write letters not worth keeping!
Sir H. Now, why should I be angry that a woman is a woman? Since inconstancy and falsehood are grounded in their natures, how can they help it?—Here's a copy of verses too: I must turn poet, in the devil's name—Stay—'Sdeath, what's here?—This is her hand——Oh, the charming characters!—[Reading.]—My dear Wildair,—That's I, 'egad!—This huff-bluff Colonel—that's he—is the rarest fool in nature—the devil he is!—and as such have I used him.—With all my heart, 'faith!—I had no better way of letting you know that I lodge in Pall Mall—Lurewell.
——Colonel, I am your most humble servant.
Colonel S. Hold, sir, you shan't go yet; I ha'n't delivered half my message.
Sir H. Upon my faith, but you have, colonel.
Colonel S. Well, well, own your spleen; out with it; I know you're like to burst.