Foss. But was there no lover offer'd his service to a lady in distress.
Town. Tongue, be upon thy guard: these questions must be design'd to trap me. [Aside.] A woman of my condition can't well escape importunity.
Foss. What was the name of that disagreeable fellow, who, you told me, teaz'd you so?
Town. His name? I think he had a thousand names. In one letter he was Myrtillo, in another Corydon, Alexis, and I don't know what.
Enter Sarsnet in haste to her mistress: He runs and embraces her with great earnestness.
Foss. Dear Mrs. Sarsnet, how am I oblig'd to thee for thy services: thou hast made me happy beyond expression.——I shall find another letter upon her.
[Aside.
[He gets his hand into Sarsnet's pocket, as searching for a letter.
[Whenever Sarsnet goes to whisper her mistress, he gets between them.
Enter Ptisan.