Phil. What pretence have I to what is in your hands, Mr. Tom?
Tom. As thus: there are hours, you know, when a lady is neither pleased or displeased; neither sick or well; when she lolls or loiters; when she's without desires—from having more of everything than she knows what to do with.
Phil. Well, what then?
Tom. When she has not life enough to keep her bright eyes quite open, to look at her own dear image in the glass.
Phil. Explain thyself, and don't be so fond of thy own prating.
Tom. There are also prosperous and good-natured moments: as when a knot or a patch is happily fixed; when the complexion particularly flourishes.
Phil. Well, what then? I have not patience!
Tom. Why, then—or on the like occasions—we servants who have skill to know how to time business, see when such a pretty folded thing as this [Shows a letter.] may be presented, laid, or dropped, as best suits the present humour. And, madam, because it is a long wearisome journey to run through all the several stages of a lady's temper, my master, who is the most reasonable man in the world, presents you this to bear your charges on the road. [Gives her the purse.
Phil. Now you think me a corrupt hussy.