Lat. Only that you'd give me some little secret hint when next you l——are going to be witty. But to jumble particulars so readily! 'Tis impossible you could, I believe, at the beginning of your tale know the ending—Yet——
Y. Book. These are gifts, child, mere gifts; 'tis not to be learnt—the skill of lying—except humour, wit, invention, presence of mind, retention, memory, circumspection, etc., were to be obtained by industry. You must not hum, nor haw, nor blush for't——
Lat. Who have we got here?
Betty entering.
Bet. May I be so bold as to crave the liberty to ask your name?
Y. Book. My bright handmaid, my little she Ganymede—thou charming Hebe—you may ask me my name, for I won't tell it you—till you do; because I'd have the more words with you.
Bet. Are not you Mr. Bookwit?
Y. Book. The very same, my dear.
Bet. There, then [Giving him letter.] He's a mighty pretty man. [Exit Betty.
Y. Book. [Reading.] "You may wonder—your person and character—this evening, near Rosamond's Pond, on the other side the Park.—Victoria."