Wood. Say no more, it shall be done.

Limb. Hark you, Mr Woodall; this fool Brainsick grows insupportable; he’s a public nuisance; but I scorn to set my wit against him:  he has a pretty wife:  I say no more; but if you do not graff him—­

Wood. A word to the wise:  I shall consider him, for your sake.

Limb. Pray do, sir:  consider him much.

Wood. Much is the word.—­This feud makes well for me. [Aside.

Brain. [To WOOD.] I’ll give you the opportunity, and rid you of him.—­Come away, little Limberham; you, and I, and father Aldo, will take a turn together in the square.

Aldo. We will follow you immediately.

Limb. Yes, we will come after you, bully Brainsick:  but I hope you will not draw upon us there.

Brain. If you fear that, Bilbo shall be left behind.

Limb. Nay, nay, leave but your madrigal behind:  draw not that upon us, and it is no matter for your sword. [Exit BRAIN.

  Enter TRICKSY, and MRS BRAINSICK, with a note for each.

Wood. [Aside.] Both together! either of them, apart, had been my business:  but I shall never play well at this three-hand game.

Limb. O Pug, how have you been passing your time?

Trick. I have been looking over the last present of orange gloves you made me; and methinks I do not like the scent.—­O Lord, Mr Woodall, did you bring those you wear from Paris?

Wood. Mine are Roman, madam.

Trick. The scent I love, of all the world.  Pray let me see them.

Mrs Brain. Nay, not both, good Mrs Tricksy; for I love that scent as well as you.

Wood. [Pulling them off, and giving each one.] I shall find two dozen more of women’s gloves among my trifles, if you please to accept them, ladies.

Trick. Look to it; we shall expect them.—­Now to put in my billet-doux!

Mrs Brain. So, now, I have the opportunity to thrust in my note.

Trick. Here, sir, take your glove again; the perfume’s too strong for me.

Mrs Brain. Pray take the other to it; though I should have kept it for a pawn. [Mrs BRAINSICK’S note falls out, LIMB. takes it up.

Limb. What have we here? [Reads.] for Mr Woodall!

Both Women. Hold, hold, Mr Limberham! [They snatch it.

Aldo. Before George, son Limberham, you shall read it.

Wood. By your favour, sir, but he must not.

Trick. He’ll know my hand, and I am ruined!

Mrs Brain. Oh, my misfortune!  Mr Woodall, will you suffer your secrets to be discovered!

Wood. It belongs to one of them, that’s certain.—­Mr Limberham, I must desire you to restore this letter; it is from my mistress.