From Mr Burr, madam.
_Isa_. [Reads.] _These for Madam Isabella. Dear rogue, Sir
Timorous knows nothing of our kindness, nor shall for me; seem still
to have designs upon him; it will hide thy affection the better to thy
servant,_ BURR.
_Isa_. Alas, poor woodcock, dost thou go a-birding? Thou hast
e'en set a springe to catch thy own neck. Look you here, Sir Timorous;
here's something to confirm what I have told you. [_Gives him the
letter_.
_Tim_. D, e, a, r, _dear_; r, o, g, u, e, _rogue_.
Pray, madam, read it; this written hand is such a damned pedantic
thing, I could never away with it.
_Isa_. He would fain have robbed you of me: Lord, Lord! to see
the malice of a man.
_Tim_. She has persuaded me so damnably, that I begin to think
she's my mistress indeed.
_Isa_. Your mistress? why, I hope you are not to doubt that, at
this time of day. I was your mistress from the first day you ever saw
me.
_Tim_. Nay, like enough you were so; but I vow to gad now, I was
wholly ignorant of my own affection.
_Isa_. And this rogue pretends he has an interest in me, merely
to defeat you: Look you, look you, where he stands in ambush, like a
Jesuit behind a Quaker, to see how his design will take.
_Tim_. I see the rogue: Now could I find in my heart to marry you
in spite to him; what think you on't, in a fair way?
_Isa_.
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