Oh what perplexing thoughts this little letter
Buzzes about my brain, both what it says,
And leaves unsaid!—oh, can it be for me?
And is the quiet nun really belov’d
Under the cover of an idle flirt?
Or is it but for her—the vain, pert thing,
Who thinks her eye slays all it looks upon?
If it be so, and she, not I, is lov’d,
I yet may be reveng’d—
Eug. (entering). On whom?