LUCETTA.
No, madam; it is too sharp.

JULIA.
You, minion, are too saucy.

LUCETTA.
Nay, now you are too flat
And mar the concord with too harsh a descant;
There wanteth but a mean to fill your song.

JULIA.
The mean is drown'd with your unruly bass.

LUCETTA.
Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus.

JULIA.
This babble shall not henceforth trouble me.
Here is a coil with protestation!--[Tears the letter.]
Go, get you gone; and let the papers lie:
You would be fingering them, to anger me.

LUCETTA.
She makes it strange; but she would be best pleas'd
To be so anger'd with another letter.

[Exit.]