T. We shall soon see that, sir. This is writ by a lady; who is prisoned or chained somewhere in the court. And she says;—well, what she says I cannot tell; but my master thinks she has run away, and has bade me order the horses to be after her.
N. What ridiculous stuff you make of it, Tristram. ’Tis addressed to Love: you do not understand.
T. Yes: it is love, and court love too: I understand that well enough, and I understand that ’tis writ to a man; therefore ’tis pikestaff-plain that ’tis writ by a woman: therefore it half follows that you did not write it: and therefore it belongs to my master.
N. How therefore belongs it to your master?
T. Why, whose else should it be? His letters come from the four quarters, no one knows whither; just where this came from.
N. Nonsense, Tristram: I assure you ’tis mine.
T. Think not to owl me thus.
N. Man! I swear that I composed that poem myself. Had you any culture you would distinguish it from the poor style of a woman. It has fallen from my pocket by accident: and if you will not give it me, I must take it from you.
T. Hands off, sir, now. I can’t think why you should try to get what belongs to another. You are mistaken. 'Master of mine’it says—and would a man write thus? (begins to read).