Well, certainly nothing touches the heart of woman so much as poetry. I suppose the master is in the next room. 'Tis his hour; desire him to walk in. 'Twill make one's ears tingle, a song on one's self!
[Here the song is performed to a spinet.
Well, dost think, Lettice, my grave lover writ this fine thing—say'st thou?
Lett. No, madam, nobody writes songs on those they are sure of.
Pen. Sure of me! the insolent!
Lett. Nay, I know no more but that he said he'd turn me away as soon as he had married you.
Pen. 'Tis like enough; that's the common practice of your jealous-headed fellows. Well, I have a good mind to dress myself anew, put on my best looks, and send for him to dismiss him. I know he loves me.
Lett. I never knew him show it but by his jealousy.
Pen. As you say, a jealous fellow love! 'tis all mistake—'tis only for himself he has desires; nor cares what the object of his wishes suffers so he himself has satisfaction.—No, he has a gluttony, an hunger for me.