Oh, the happiness! What is become of the girl? Oh! Latine! Latine! ask me fifty questions all at once! What ails me? Why this joy? Who is this from? Oh, I could die, methinks, this moment, lest there should be in fate some future ill to dash my present joy! Why, Jack, why dost not ask me what's the matter?
Lat. If you'd but give me leave——
Y. Book. No; do not speak. Let me talk all; I fain would celebrate my fair one's praise, her every beauty! but the mind's too full to utter anything that is articulate, and will give way to nothing but mere names and interjections. O Victoria! Victoria! Victoria! O my Victoria! Read there.
Lat. Well, I own this subscribed "Victoria"—but still I am afraid of mistakes.
Y. Book. No—kneel down and ask forgiveness. You don't believe that she that would not speak to me would write.—But after all raptures and ecstasies—prithee step after the maid, learn what you can of her fortune, and so forth. Get interest to be admitted another time. [Exit Latine.
Enter Frederick.
Fred. Sir, your servant
Y. Book. Yours, sir; have you business with me?
Fred. This paper speaks it.
Y. Book. [Reading.] "Of a friend you've made me your mortal enemy. With your sword I expect satisfaction to-morrow morning at six in Hyde Park.—Lovemore." Do you know the contents of this letter?