Sir To. What wilt thou do?
Mar. I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, he shall find himself most feelingly personated: I can write very like my lady, your niece; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands.
Sir To. Excellent! I smell a device.
Sir And. I have't in my nose too.
Sir To. He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him?
Sir And. O, 'twill be admirable.
Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you. I will plant you two, and let Fabian make a third, where he shall find the letter; observe his construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell.
[Exit Maria.
Sir To. Good night, Penthesilea.
Sir And. Before me, she's a good wench.