Kite. Lookye, fair lady! the devil is a very modest person, he seeks nobody unless they seek him first; he's chained up, like a mastiff, and can't stir unless he be let loose—You come to me to have your fortune told—do you think, madam, that I can answer you of my own head? No, madam; the affairs of women are so irregular, that nothing less than the devil can give any account of them. Now to convince you of your incredulity, I'll show you a trial of my skill. Here, you Cacodemo del Plumo, exert your power, draw me this lady's name, the word Melinda, in proper letters and characters of her own hand-writing—do it at three motions—one—two—three—'tis done—Now, madam, will you please to send your maid to fetch it?
Lucy. I fetch it! the devil fetch me if I do.
Mel. My name, in my own hand-writing! that would be convincing indeed!
Kite. Seeing is believing. [Goes to the Table, and lifts up the Carpet.] Here Tre, Tre, poor Tre, give me the bone, sirrah. There's your name upon that square piece of paper. Behold—
Mel. 'Tis wonderful! my very letters to a tittle!
Lucy. 'Tis like your hand, madam; but not so like your hand, neither; and now I look nearer 'tis not like your hand at all.
Kite. Here's a chambermaid now will outlie the devil!
Lucy. Lookye, madam, they shan't impose upon us; people can't remember their hands no more than they can their faces—Come, madam, let us be certain; write your name upon this paper, then we'll compare the two hands.
[Takes out a Paper, and folds it.
Kite. Any thing for your satisfaction, madam—Here is pen and ink.