Tattle.—Hah! A good open speaker, and not to be trusted with a secret.
Angelica.—Do you know me, Valentine?
Valentine.—Oh, very well.
Angelica.—Who am I?
Valentine.—You're a woman, one to whom Heaven gave beauty when it grafted roses on a brier. You are the reflection of Heaven in a pond; and he that leaps at you is sunk. You are all white—a sheet of spotless paper—when you first are born; but you are to be scrawled and blotted by every goose's quill. I know you; for I loved a woman, and loved her so long that I found out a strange thing: I found out what a woman was good for.
Tattle.—Ay! pr'ythee, what's that?
Valentine.—Why, to keep a secret.
Tattle.—O Lord!
Valentine.—Oh, exceeding good to keep a secret; for, though she should tell, yet she is not to be believed.
Tattle.—Hah! Good again, faith.