Lett. Pho! pho! now you are rude, because you know one dare not discover you. You do what you will.—How he kisses one's hand: I warrant he has kissed his betters. [Aside.]—Pray, did you never live in a lady's service?
Lat. No; nor do I value any of the sex but your dear self, Mrs. Lettice.—I would be discovered. [Aside.]—I'm in a rapture! in a flame!
Pen. [Within.] Who's there?
Lett. Hist, hist! could not you have forced a kiss quietly?—Madam! madam!—Hold me fast. Show the letter, my lady's coming.—I tell you, sir, she will receive no message at all. Get you downstairs, you impudent!—Hold me faster yet; she loves your master. [Softly aside to Latine.
Enter Penelope and Victoria.
Pen. What can this mean? What fellow's that has seized the wench?
Lett. Madam, madam, here's Mr. Bookwit's footman drunk, and has directly stole upstairs with some ill design, I fear, on me—but has a letter from his master to your ladyship.
Pen. Call up the servants: Simon, William, Kate, Alf! I'll have the rascal well basted for his insolence—served just as his master deserves.
Lat. [Kneeling.] Let not those lips, more sweet than labour of Hyblæan bees, utter a sentence, as if a Libyan lioness on a mountain gave thee suck, and thou wert the obdurate offspring of a rock.