_Brass._ No, so I think: men of our end of the town are better bred than to use ceremony. With a long perriwig we strike the lady, with a you-know-what we soften the maid; and when the parson has done his job, we open the affair to the family. Will you slip this letter into her prayer-book, my little queen? It's a very passionate one----It's seal'd with a heart and a dagger; you may see by that what he intends to do with himself. _Flip._ Are there any verses in it? If not, I won't touch it. _Brass._ Not one word in prose, it's dated in rhyme. [_She takes it._ _Flip._ Well, but have you brought nothing else? _Brass._ Gad forgive me; I'm the forgetfullest dog----I have a letter for you too----here----'tis in a purse, but it's in prose, you won't touch it. _Flip._ Yes, hang it, it is not good to be too dainty. _Brass._ How useful a virtue is humility! Well, child, we shall have an answer to-morrow, shan't we? _Flip._ I can't promise you that; for our young gentlewoman is not so often in my way as she would be. Her father (who is a citizen from the foot to the forehead of him) lets her seldom converse with her mother-in-law and me, for fear she should learn the airs of a woman of quality. But I'll take the first occasion: see, there's my lady, go in and deliver your letter to her. [_Exeunt._ +SCENE+, _a Parlour_. _Enter ~Clarissa~, follow'd by ~Flippanta~ and ~Brass~._ _Clar._ No messages this morning from any body, _Flippanta_? Lard how dull that is! O, there's _Brass_! I did not see thee, _Brass_. What news dost thou bring? _Brass._ Only a letter from _Araminta_, Madam. _Clar._ Give it me----open it for me, _Flippanta_, I am so lazy to-day. [_Sitting down._ _Brass._ [_To Flip._] Be sure now you deliver my master's as carefully as I do this. _Flip._ Don't trouble thyself, I'm no novice. _Clar._ [to _Brass._] 'Tis well, there needs no answer, since she'll be here so soon. _Brass._ Your ladyship has no farther commands then? _Clar._ Not at this time, honest _Brass_. _Flippanta_! [_Exit ~Brass~._ _Flip._ Madam. _Clar._ My husband's in love. _Flip._ In love? _Clar._ With _Araminta_. _Flip._ Impossible! _Clar._ This letter from her, is to give me an account of it. _Flip._ Methinks you are not very much alarm'd. _Clar._ No; thou know'st I'm not much tortur'd with jealousy. _Flip._ Nay, you are much in the right on't, Madam, for jealousy's a city passion, 'tis a thing unknown amongst people of quality. _Clar._ Fy! A woman must indeed be of a mechanick mould, who is either troubled or pleas'd with any thing her husband can do to her. Pr'ythee mention him no more; 'tis the dullest theme.