Plume. Pho! let me see it. [Opening the Letter.] If she be a jilt—Damn her, she is one—there's her name at the bottom on't.
Wor. How! then I'll travel in good earnest—By all my hopes, 'tis Lucy's hand.
Plume. Lucy's!
Wor. Certainly—'tis no more like Melinda's character, than black is to white.
Plume. Then 'tis certainly Lucy's contrivance to draw in Brazen for a husband—But are you sure 'tis not Melinda's hand?
Wor. You shall see; where's the bit of paper I gave you just now that the devil wrote Melinda upon?
Kite. Here, sir.
Plume. 'Tis plain they are not the same; and is this the malicious name that was subscribed to the letter which made Mr. Balance send his daughter into the country?
Wor. The very same: the other fragments I showed you just now.
Plume. But 'twas barbarous to conceal this so long, and to continue me so many hours in the pernicious heresy of believing that angelic creature could change. Poor Sylvia!