_T._ Yes: it is love, and court love too: I understand that well enough, and I understand that ’tis writ to a man; therefore ’tis pikestaff-plain that ’tis writ by a woman: therefore it half follows that you did not write it: and therefore it belongs to my master. _N._ How therefore belongs it to your master? _T._ Why, whose else should it be? His letters come from the four quarters, no one knows whither; just where this came from. _N._ Nonsense, Tristram: I assure you ’tis mine. _T._ Think not to owl me thus. _N._ Man! I swear that I composed that poem myself. Had you any culture you would distinguish it from the poor style of a woman. It has fallen from my pocket by accident: and if you will not give it me, I must take it from you. _T._ Hands off, sir, now. I can’t think why you should try to get what belongs to another. You are mistaken. 'Master of mine’it says—and would a man write thus? (_begins to read_). _N._ Death! stop mine ears! That I should hear my verse Again profaned by thee, thou baseborn clown. _T._ I read correctly, sir. If you find fault with my reading, ’tis the strangeness of the matter. I have good reasons for not parting with this; and I am not a baseborn clown. _N._ Worse; thou art a thief. _T._ Thief call you me? Now were the verses ten thousand times yours, sir, I’d never give 'em you. I defy you! _N._ Thou to defy me, slave; paid by the month To render menial offices to one Himself the annual hireling of the lady 875 Whom I shall call my sister! O thou fool, If reason cannot work into thy skull 'Cause of its wooden thickness, I’ll find means To punish thee. _T._ Good day, sir. Stand you here and rail. I must be off with my master after this lady. But I shall not forget your language to me, sir: be this paper what it will. [_Exit._ _N._ Tristram, Tristram, I beg of you! my sonnet! my sonnet! ACT · II SCENE · 1 _Night. The garden, at Laura’s windows, which are nearly to the ground. L. a wall with door in it leading from the park without. Enter by door in travelling costume FREDERICK and TRISTRAM carrying a small portmantle. F. stays behind to lock the door._ _TRISTRAM_ (_coming to front_). Here’s a journey: twenty miles about and home again: and no lady. Were it not for the letter I found on the path, I should hold to my opinion that it is all a make-believe, and that there is no lady at all: and that my master wrote that first letter to himself, making the appointment to meet himself, ... he returns so pleased, with his head in the air, like the best satisfied lover. I have a fool for my master. He is but a fool, tho’he needs no humouring. (_To F. who approaches._) Well, now we are at home again, sir; and as it were partly returned to our senses.... _FREDERICK._ Silence, Tristram. Take off your boots. _T._ Pray, sir....