LADY. If you think the least scruple of causality was an ingredient— WAIT. Dear madam, no. You are all camphire and frankincense, all chastity and odour. LADY. Or that— SCENE XIII. [_To them_] FOIBLE. FOIB. Madam, the dancers are ready, and there’s one with a letter, who must deliver it into your own hands. LADY. Sir Rowland, will you give me leave? Think favourably, judge candidly, and conclude you have found a person who would suffer racks in honour’s cause, dear Sir Rowland, and will wait on you incessantly. SCENE XIV. WAITWELL, FOIBLE. WAIT. Fie, fie! What a slavery have I undergone; spouse, hast thou any cordial? I want spirits. FOIB. What a washy rogue art thou, to pant thus for a quarter of an hour’s lying and swearing to a fine lady? WAIT. Oh, she is the antidote to desire. Spouse, thou wilt fare the worse for’t. I shall have no appetite to iteration of nuptials—this eight-and-forty hours. By this hand I’d rather be a chairman in the dog-days than act Sir Rowland till this time to-morrow. SCENE XV. [_To them_] LADY _with a letter_. LADY. Call in the dancers; Sir Rowland, we’ll sit, if you please, and see the entertainment. [_Dance_.] Now, with your permission, Sir Rowland, I will peruse my letter. I would open it in your presence, because I would not make you uneasy. If it should make you uneasy, I would burn it—speak if it does—but you may see, the superscription is like a woman’s hand. FOIB. By heaven! Mrs. Marwood’s, I know it,—my heart aches—get it from her! [_To him_.] WAIT. A woman’s hand? No madam, that’s no woman’s hand: I see that already. That’s somebody whose throat must be cut. LADY. Nay, Sir Rowland, since you give me a proof of your passion by your jealousy, I promise you I’ll make a return by a frank communication. You shall see it—we’ll open it together. Look you here. [_Reads_.] _Madam_, _though unknown to you_ (look you there, ’tis from nobody that I know.) _I have that honour for your character_, _that I think myself obliged to let you know you are abused_. _He who pretends to be Sir Rowland is a cheat and a rascal_. O heavens! what’s this? FOIB. Unfortunate; all’s ruined. WAIT. How, how, let me see, let me see. [_Reading_.] _A rascal_, _and disguised and suborned for that imposture_—O villainy! O villainy!—_by the contrivance of_— LADY. I shall faint, I shall die. Oh! FOIB. Say ’tis your nephew’s hand. Quickly, his plot, swear, swear it! [_To him_.] WAIT. Here’s a villain! Madam, don’t you perceive it? Don’t you see it? LADY. Too well, too well. I have seen too much. WAIT. I told you at first I knew the hand. A woman’s hand? The rascal writes a sort of a large hand: your Roman hand.—I saw there was a throat to be cut presently. If he were my son, as he is my nephew, I’d pistol him. FOIB. O treachery! But are you sure, Sir Rowland, it is his writing?