WIT. Madam, truce with your similitudes.--No, you met her husband,
and did not ask him for her.

MIRA. By your leave, Witwoud, that were like enquiring after an old
fashion to ask a husband for his wife.

WIT. Hum, a hit, a hit, a palpable hit; I confess it.

MRS. FAIN. You were dressed before I came abroad.

MILLA. Ay, that's true. Oh, but then I had--Mincing, what had I?
Why was I so long?

MINC. O mem, your laship stayed to peruse a packet of letters.

MILLA. Oh, ay, letters--I had letters--I am persecuted with
letters--I hate letters. Nobody knows how to write letters; and yet
one has 'em, one does not know why. They serve one to pin up one's
hair.

WIT. Is that the way? Pray, madam, do you pin up your hair with
all your letters? I find I must keep copies.

MILLA. Only with those in verse, Mr. Witwoud. I never pin up my
hair with prose. I think I tried once, Mincing.

MINC. O mem, I shall never forget it.

MILLA. Ay, poor Mincing tift and tift all the morning.