ANG. How!

TATT. No, madam, his love for your ladyship. Gad take me, I beg
your pardon,--for I never heard a word of your ladyship's passion
till this instant.

ANG. My passion! And who told you of my passion, pray sir?

SCAN. Why, is the devil in you? Did not I tell it you for a
secret?

TATT. Gadso; but I thought she might have been trusted with her own
affairs.

SCAN. Is that your discretion? Trust a woman with herself?

TATT. You say true, I beg your pardon. I'll bring all off. It was
impossible, madam, for me to imagine that a person of your
ladyship's wit and gallantry could have so long received the
passionate addresses of the accomplished Valentine, and yet remain
insensible; therefore you will pardon me, if, from a just weight of
his merit, with your ladyship's good judgment, I formed the balance
of a reciprocal affection.

VAL. O the devil, what damned costive poet has given thee this
lesson of fustian to get by rote?

ANG. I dare swear you wrong him, it is his own. And Mr Tattle only
judges of the success of others, from the effects of his own merit.
For certainly Mr Tattle was never denied anything in his life.