LADY TOUCH. How, what said you, Maskwell? Another caprice to
unwind my temper?

MASK. By heav'n, no; I am your slave, the slave of all your
pleasures; and will not rest till I have given you peace, would you
suffer me.

LADY TOUCH. O Maskwell! in vain I do disguise me from thee, thou
know'st me, knowest the very inmost windings and recesses of my
soul. O Mellefont! I burn; married to morrow! Despair strikes me.
Yet my soul knows I hate him too: let him but once be mine, and
next immediate ruin seize him.

MASK. Compose yourself, you shall possess and ruin him too,--will
that please you?

LADY TOUCH. How, how? Thou dear, thou precious villain, how?

MASK. You have already been tampering with my Lady Plyant.

LADY TOUCH. I have: she is ready for any impression I think fit.

MASK. She must be throughly persuaded that Mellefont loves her.

LADY TOUCH. She is so credulous that way naturally, and likes him
so well, that she will believe it faster than I can persuade her.
But I don't see what you can propose from such a trifling design,
for her first conversing with Mellefont will convince her of the
contrary.