Y. Book. No; always tender of rep.—she is of quality—a gentleman usher came with it. I can't believe there's anything in that old whim of being wrapt in one's mother's smock to be thus lucky; I suppose I was used like other children. They clapped me on a skull-cap, swathed me hard, played me in arms, and shewed me London. But however it comes about I have strange luck with the women.
Lat. But let us see this letter.
Y. Book. [Reading.] "No, no—A woman of condition to go so far—But, indeed, your passion, your wit—My page—at the back 'stairs—secrecy, and your veracity——"
Lat. There her ladyship nicked it. Pox, I'll be as humourous and frolic as you. You pert fellows are the only successful——
Y. Book. Well said, lad; and, as Mr. Bayes says,[64] now the plot thickens upon us we'll spend our time as gaily as the best of 'em, and all of it in love—
For since through all the race of man we find,
Each to some darling passion is inclined,
Let love be still the bias of my mind. [Exeunt.