L. Fan. Are you bewitch'd? what is't that frights you?

Lod. I'm fix'd: Death, was ever such a Lover? Just ready for the highest Joys of Love, And like a bashful Girl restrain'd by Fear Of an insuing Infamy—I hate to cuckold my own Expectations.

L. Fan. Heavens! what can you mean?

Lod. Death, what's this?—sure 'tis not Virtue in me,—Pray Heaven it be not Impotence!—Where got I this damn'd Honesty, which I never found my self master of till now!—why shou'd it seize me when I had least need on't?

L. Fan. What ails you? are you mad?—we are safe, and free as Winds let loose to ruffle all the Groves; what is't delays you then? Soft.

Lod. Pox o' this thought of Wife, the very Name destroys my appetite. Oh, with what Vigour I could deal my Love To some fair leud unknown, To whom I'd never made a serious Vow!

L. Fan. Tell me the Mystery of this sudden Coldness: have I kept my Husband in Town for this? Nay, persuaded him to be very sick to serve our purpose, and am I thus rewarded—ungrateful Man!

Lod. Hah,—'tis not Isabella's Voice,—your Husband, say you? [Takes hold greedily of her Hand.

L. Fan. Is safe, from any fear of interrupting us. Come—these Delays do ill consist with Love And our Desires; at least if they are equal.

Lod. Death, 'tis the charming Mother! What lucky Star directed me to night? O my fair Dissembler, let us haste To pay the mighty Tributes due to Love.

L. Fan. Follow me then with careful Silence,—for Isabella's Chamber joins to this, and she may hear us.

Lod. Not Flowers grow, nor smooth Streams glide away, Not absent Lovers sigh, nor breaks the Day, More silently than I'll those Joys receive, Which Love and Darkness do conspire to give.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V. Changes again to a Garden.

Enter Isabella and Fanny in their Night-gowns.

Isab. Well, I have no mind to let this dear mad Devil Lodwick in to night.

Fan. Why, Sister, this is not the first Venture you have made of this kind, at this Hour, and in this Place; these Arbours were they tell-tales, cou'd discover many pretty stories of your Loves, and do you think they'll be less faithful now? pray trust them once again. Oh, I do so love to hear Mr. Lodwick protest, and vow, and swear, and dissemble, and when you don't believe him, rail at you,—avads, 'tis the prettiest Man—

Isab. I have a strange apprehension of being surpriz'd to night.

Fan. I'll warrant you, I'll sit on yon Bank of Pinks, and when I hear a Noise I'll come and tell you; so Lodwick may slip out at the back Gate, and we may be walking up and down as if we meant no harm.

Isab. You'll grow very expert in the Arts of Love, Fanny.

Fan. When I am big enough I shall do my Endeavour, for I have heard you say, Women were born to no other end than to love: And 'tis fit I should learn to live and die in my calling.—Come, open the Gate, or you'll repent it, we shall have my Father marry you within a day or two to that ugly Man that speaks hard Words,—avads, I can't abide him.

Isab. What Noise is that?

Fan. Why, 'tis Mr. Lodwick at the Garden-Door;—let him in whilst I'll to my flowry Bank, and stand Centinel.— [Runs off. Isabella opens the Gate.

Enter Wittmore.

Wit. Who's there?

Isab. Speak low, who shou'd it be but the kind Fool her self, who can deny you nothing but what you dare not take?

Wit. Not take! what's that? hast thou reserves in store? —Oh, come and let me lead thee to thy Bed, Or seat thee on some Bank of softer Flowers, Where I may rifle all thy unknown Store.

Isab. How! surely you're not in earnest?—Do you love me?

Wit. Love thee! by thy dear self, all that my Soul adores, I'm all impatient Flame! all over Love! —You do not use to doubt, but since you do, Come, and I'll satisfy thy obliging Fears, And give thee Proofs how much my Soul is thine, I'll breathe it all anew into thy Bosom.— Oh, thou art fit for the transporting Play, All loose and wanton, like the Queen of Love When she descends to meet the Youth in Shades.

Isab. And are you, Sir, in earnest? can it be?

Wit. That question was severe, what means my Love? What pretty Art is this to blow my Flame? Are you not mine? did we not meet t'enjoy? I came not with more vigorous eager Haste, When our first Sacrifice to Love we paid, Than to perform that Ceremony now. Come do not let the Sacred Fire burn out, Which only was prepar'd for Love's rich Altar, And this is the divine, dark, silent Minute— [Goes to lead her off.

Isab. Hold, Ravisher, and know this saucy Passion Has render'd back your Interest. Now I hate ye, And my Obedience to my Father's Will Shall marry me to Fainlove, and I'll despise ye. [Flings from him.

Wit. Hah! Isabella! Death, I have made sweet work,—stay, gentle Maid,—she'll ruin all if she go:—stay—she knew me, and cunningly drew me to this Discovery; I'll after her and undeceive her. [Runs after her.

A confused Noise of the Serenade, the

SCENE VI draws off to Lady Fancy's Anti-chamber.

Enter Isabella groping as in the dark.

Isab. Pray Heaven I get undiscover'd to my Chamber, where I'll make Vows against this perjured Man; hah, sure he follows still; no Wood-Nymph ever fled before a Satyr, with half that trembling haste I flew from Lodwick.—Oh, he has lost his Virtue, and undone me. [Goes out groping, and the noise of Serenade again.

SCENE VII. Changes to Lady Fancy's Bed-chamber, discovers her as before; Lodwick as just risen in Disorder from the Bed, buttoning himself, and setting himself in order; and Noise at the Door of unlatching it.

Enter Isabella groping, Sir Patient without.

L. Fan. It is this Door that open'd, and which I thought I had secur'd.

Sir Pat. [Within.] Oh, insupportable, abominable, and not to be indur'd!

Isab. Hah, my Father! I'm discover'd and pursu'd,—grant me to find the Bed.

L. Fan. Heavens! 'twas my Husband's Voice, sure we're betray'd. It must be so, for what Devil but that of Jealousy cou'd raise him at this late hour?

Isab. Hah, where am I, and who is't that speaks— [To her self.

Lod. So, he must know that I have made a Cuckold of him. [Aside.

Sir Pat. [Within.] Call up my Men, the Coachman, Groom, and Butler, the Footmen, Cook, and Gardiner; bid 'em all rise and arm, with long Staff, Spade and Pitchfork, and sally out upon the Wicked.

Lod. S'heart! what a Death shall I die:—is there no place of safety hereabouts—for there is no resisting these unmerciful Weapons.

Isab. A Man's Voice!

L. Fan. I know of none, nor how to prevent your Discovery.

Sir Pat. [Within.] Oh, oh, lead me forward, I'll lie here on the Garden-side, out of the hearing of this Hellish Noise.

L. Fan. Hah, Noise!—what means he?

Lod. Nay, I know not, is there no escaping?—

Isab. Who can they be that talk thus? sure I have mistook my Chamber.

L. Fan. Oh, he's coming in—I'm ruin'd; what shall we do? here—get into the Bed—and cover your self with the Clothes—quickly—oh, my Confusion will betray me. [Lodwick gets into the Bed, Isabella hides behind the Curtain very near to him.

Enter Sir Patient, led by Nurse and Maundy, with Lights.

Maun. Pray go back, Sir, my poor Lady will be frighted out of her Wits at this danger you put your self into, the Noise shall be still'd.

L. Fan. Oh, what's the matter with my Love? what, do you mean to murder him? oh, lead him instantly back to his Bed.

Sir Pat. Oh, oh, no, I'll lie here,—put me to bed, oh, I faint,—my Chamber's possest with twenty thousand Evil Spirits.

L. Fan. Possest! what sickly Fancy's this?

Sir Pat. Ah, the House is beset, surrounded and confounded with profane tinkling, with Popish Horn-Pipes, and Jesuitical Cymbals, more Antichristian and Abominable than Organs, or Anthems.

Nurse. Yea verily, and surely it is the spawn of Cathedral Instruments plaid on by Babylonish Minstrels, only to disturb the Brethren.

Sir Pat. Ay, 'tis so, call up my Servants, and let them be first chastiz'd and then hang'd; accuse 'em for French Papishes, that had a design to fire the City, or any thing:—oh, I shall die—lead me gently to this Bed.

L. Fan. To hinder him will discover all:—stay, Sir.—

Sir Pat. Hah, my Lady turn'd rebellious!—put me to Bed I say;— [Throws himself forward to the Bed.] —hah—what's here?—what are thou,—a Man,—hah, a Man, Treason! betray'd! my Bed's defil'd, my Lady polluted, and I am cornuted; oh thou vile Serpent of my Bosom! [She stands with her Face towards the Stage in signs of fear.

Isab. A Man, and in my virtuous Lady Mother's Chamber! how fortunate was I to light on this discovery!

L. Fan. Well, Sir, since you have seen him, I beseech you for my sake, Dear, pardon him this one time. [Coakesing him.

Sir Pat. Thou beg his Pardon! Oh, was ever heard such Impudence!

L. Fan. Indeed, my Love, he is to blame; but we that are judicious should bear with the Frailities of Youth.

Sir Pat. Oh insupportable Audacity!—what canst thou say, false Woman?

L. Fan. Truly not much in his Defence, my Dear.

Isab. Oh cunning Devil!—

L. Fan. But, Sir, to hide the weakness of your Daughter, I have a little strain'd my Modesty.—

Isab. Heavens! what says she?—

L. Fan. 'Tis Isabella's Lover, Sir, whom I've conceal'd.

Lod. A good hint to save both our Credits.

Sir Pat. How, Mr. Fainlove mean you?

[Lodwick rises and comes a little more forward, Isabella does the like, till both meet at the feet of the Bed, and start, Lodwick looking simply.

L. Fan. Ay, my dear, Mr. Fainlove.

Lod. Isabella here! must she know too what a fine inconstant Dog I am?—

Isab. Lodwick! and in my Mother's Chamber! may I believe my Eyes!

Sir Pat. But how got he hither?—tell me that: oh Youth, Youth, to what degree of Wickedness art thou arriv'd?

L. Fan. She appointed him to come this Night, Sir, and he going to her Chamber, by mistake came into mine, it being the next to her's.

Maun. But, Lord, Sir, had you heard how my Lady school'd him, whilst I ran down to fetch a Light!

Lod. Now does my Conscience tell me, I am a damn'd Villain.— [Aside, looking pitifully on Isabella.

L. Fan. But the poor Man presently perceiv'd his mistake, and beg'd my pardon in such feeling Terms—that I vow I had not the heart to deny it him.

Isab. Oh Traytor! wou'd thou hadst been that Ravisher I took thee for, rather than such a Villain—false! and with my Mother too!

L. Fan. And just then, Sir, you came to the Door, and lest you shou'd see him, intreated me to hide him from your Anger,—the Offence is not so heinous, Sir, considering he is so soon to marry her.

Sir Pat. Well, Sir, and what have you to say in your Defence?—hah, how, Mr. Knowell,—worse and worse,—why, how came you hither, Sir? hah.—

L. Fan. Not Wittmore! oh, I am ruin'd and betray'd. [Falls almost in a swoon.

Sir Pat. Hah, Isabella here too!

Isab. Yes, Sir, to justify her Innocence.

Sir Pat. Hah! Innocence! and justify! take her away; go out of my sight, thou Limb of Satan,—take her away, I say, I'll talk with you to morrow, Lady Finetricks—I will.—

Isab. —And I'll know before I sleep, the mystery of all this, and who 'twas this faithless Man sent in his room to deceive me in the Garden. [Goes out.

Lod. A plague of all ill-luck—how the Devil came she hither? I must follow and reconcile her. [Going out, Sir Patient stays him.

Sir Pat. Nay, Sir, we must not part so till I have known the truth of this Business, I take it.

Lod. Truth, Sir! oh, all that your fair Lady has said, Sir; I must confess her Eyes have wounded me enough with Anger, you need not add more to my Shame.—

L. Fan. Some little comfort yet, that he prov'd indeed to be Isabella's Lover: Oh, that I should mistake so unluckily! [Aside.

Sir Pat. Why, I thought it had been Mr. Fainlove.

L. Fan. By all that's good, and so did I.

Lod. I know you did, Madam, or you had not been so kind to me: Your Servant, dear Madam.— [Going, Sir Patient stays him.

L. Fan. Pray, Sir, let him go; oh, how I abominate the sight of a Man that cou'd be so wicked as he has been!

Sir Pat. Ha,—good Lady, excellent Woman: well, Sir, for my Lady's sake I'll let you pass with this, but if I catch you here again, I shall spoil your Intrigues, Sir, marry, shall I, and so rest ye satisfied, Sir.—

Lod. At this time, I am, Sir—Madam, a thousand Blessings on you for this Goodness.

L. Fan. Ten thousand Curses upon thee,—go, boast the Ruin you have made. [Aside to Lod.

Sir Pat. Come, no more Anger now, my Lady; the Gentleman's sorry you see, I'll marry my pert Huswife to morrow for this.—Maundy, see the Gentleman safe out:—ah, put me to Bed; ah, this Night's Work will kill me, ah, ah.

[Exeunt Lodwick and Maundy.

The Scene draws over Sir Patient and Lady: draws again and discovers

SCENE VIII. The Garden, Wittmore, Fanny, and Isabella.

Isab. How, Mr. Fainlove, it cannot be.

Fan. Indeed, Sister, 'tis the same, for all he talks so; and he told me his coming was but to try your Virtue only.

Enter Lodwick and Maundy as passing over, but stand.

Isab. That Fainlove! whom I am so soon to marry! and but this day courted me in another Dialect!

Wit. That was my Policy, Madam, to pass upon your Father with. But I'm a Man that knows the value of the Fair, and saw Charms of Beauty and of Wit in you, that taught me to know the way to your Heart was to appear my self, which now I do. Why did you leave me so unkindly but now?

Lod. Hah, what's this? whilst I was grafting Horns on another's Head, some kind Friend was doing that good Office for me.

Maun. Sure 'tis Wittmore!—oh that Dissembler—this was his Plot upon my Lady, to gain time with Isabella. [Aside.

Wit. And being so near my Happiness, can you blame me, if I made a trial whether your Virtue were agreeable to your Beauty, great, and to be equally ador'd?

Lod. Death, I've heard enough to forfeit all my Patience!—Draw, Sir, and make a trial of your Courage too.—

Wit. Hah, what desperate Fool art thou? [Draws.

Lod. One that will see thee fairly damn'd, e'er yield his Interest up in Isabella—oh thou false Woman! [They fight out, Isabella, Fanny, and Maundy run off.

SCENE IX. Changes to the long Street, a Pageant of an Elephant coming from the farther end with Sir Credulous on it, and several others playing on strange confused Instruments.

Sir Cred. This sure is extraordinary, or the Devil's in't, and I'll ne'er trust Serenade more. [Come forward, and all play again. —Hold, hold, now for the Song, which because I wou'd have most deliciously and melodiously sung, I'll sing my self; look ye,—hum—hum.—

Sir Credulous should have sung.

_Thou Grief of my Heart, and thou Pearl of my Eyes, D'on thy Flannel Petticoat quickly, and rise; And from thy resplendent Window discover A Face that wou'd mortify any young Lover: For I, like great _Jove_ transformed, do wooe, And am amorous Owl, to wit to wooe, to wit to wooe.

A Lover, Ads Zoz, is a sort of a Tool That of all Things you best may compare to an Owl: For in some dark Shades he delights still to sit, And all the Night long he crys wo to wit. Then rise, my bright _Cloris_, and d'on on slip shoe: And hear thy amorous Owl chant, wit to wooe, wit to wooe._

—Well, this won't do, for I perceive no Window open, nor Lady bright appear, to talk obligingly:—perhaps the Song does not please her: you Ballad-singers, have you no good Songs of another fashion?

1 Man. Yes, Sir, Several, Robin—Hark how the Waters fall, fall, fall!

Sir Cred. How, Man! Zoz, remove us farther off, for fear of wetting.

1 Man. No, no, Sir, I only gave my Fellow a hint of an excellent Ballad that begins—Ill-wedded Joys, how quickly do you fade! [Sings.

Sir Cred. Ay, ay, that, we'll have that,—Ill-wedded Joys, how quickly do you fade,— [Sings.] That's excellent! Oh, now the Windows open, now, now shew your capering Tricks. [Vaulting. [They all play again.

Enter Roger and a Company of Fellows as out of Sir Patient's House, led on by Abel a precise Clerk, all armed with odd Weapons.

Abel. Verily, verily, here be these Babes of Perdition, these Children of Iniquity.

Rog. A pox of your Babes and Children, they are Men, and Sons of Whores, whom we must bang confoundedly, for not letting honest godly People rest quietly in their Beds at Midnight.

Sir Cred. Who's there?

Rog. There, with a Pox to you; cannot a Right-worshipful Knight, that has been sick these Twenty Years with taking Physick, sleep quietly in his own House for you; and must we be rais'd out of our Beds to quiet your Hell-pipes, in the Devil's name?

Abel. Down with Gog and Magog, there; there's the rotten Bell weather that leads the rest astray, and defiles the whole Flock.

Rog. Hang your preaching, and let's come to him, we'll maul him. [Beat Sir Cred.

Sir Cred. Oh, Quarter, Quarter, Murder, Help, Murder, Murder!

Enter Lodwick.

Lod. Damn these Rascals, who e'er they were, that so unluckily redeem'd a Rival from my Fury,—Hah, they are here,—Egad, I'll have one touch more with 'em,—the Dogs are spoiling my design'd Serenade too—have amongst ye.— [Fights and beats 'em off.] Sir Credulous, how is't?

Sir Cred. Who's there? Lodwick? Oh dear Lad, is't thou that hast redeem'd me from the inchanted Cudgels that demolish'd my triumphant Pageant, and confounded my Serenade? Zoz, I'm half kill'd, Man,—I have never a whole Bone about me sure.

Lod. Come in with me—a plague upon the Rascal that escap'd me.

[Exeunt.



ACT IV.

SCENE I. Lady Knowell's House.

Enter Lucretia, followed by Sir Credulous.

Lucr. Marry'd to morrow! and leave my Mother the possession of Leander! I'll die a thousand Deaths first.—How the Fool haunts me! [Aside.

Sir Cred. Nay, delicious Lady, you may say your Pleasure; but I will justify the Serenade to be as high a piece of Gallantry as was ever practised in our Age, though not comparable to your Charms and celestial Graces, which shou'd I praise as I ought, 'twou'd require more time than the Sun employs in his natural Motion between the Tropicks; that is to say, a whole Year, (for by the way, I am no Copernican) for, Dear Madam, you must know, my Rhetorick Master,—I say, my Rhetorick Master, who was—

Lucr. As great a Coxcomb as your self;—pray leave me, I am serious—I must go seek out Lodwick.

Sir Cred. Leave ye! I thank you for that, i'faith, before I have spoke out my Speech; therefore I say, Divine Lady—because my Rhetorick Master commanded the frequent use of Hypallages, Allegories, and the richest Figures of that beauteous Art,—because my Rhetorick—

Lucr. I must leave the Fool, follow if you dare, for I have no leisure to attend your Nonsense. [Goes out.

Enter Lady Knowell.

L. Kno. What, alone, Sir Credulous? I left you with Lucretia.

Sir Cred. Lucretia! I'm sure she makes a very Tarquinius Sextus of me, and all about this Serenade,—I protest and vow, incomparable Lady, I had begun the sweetest Speech to her—though I say't, such Flowers of Rhetorick—'twou'd have been the very Nosegay of Eloquence, so it wou'd; and like an ungrateful illiterate Woman as she is, she left me in the very middle on't, so snuffy I'll warrant.

L. Kno. Be not discourag'd, Sir, I'll adapt her to a reconciliation: Lovers must sometimes expect these little Belli fugaces; the Grecians therefore truly named Love Glucupicros Eros.

Sir Cred. Nay, bright Lady, I am as little discourag'd as another, but I'm sorry I gave so extraordinary a Serenade to so little purpose.

L. Kno. Name it no more, 'twas only a Gallantry mistaken; but I'll accelerate your Felicity, and to morrow shall conclude the great dispute, since there is such Volubility and Vicissitude in mundane Affairs. [Goes out.

Enter Lodwick, stays Sir Credulous as he is going out the other way.

Lod. Sir Credulous, whither away so fast?

Sir Cred. Zoz, what a Question's there? dost not know I am to unty the Virgin Zone to morrow, that is, barter Maiden-heads with thy Sister, that is, to be married to her, Man, and I must to Lincolns-Inn to my Counsel about it?

Lod. My Sister just now told me of it; but, Sir, you must not stir.

Sir Cred. Why, what's the matter?

Lod. Have you made your Will?

Sir Cred. My Will! no, why my Will, Man?

Lod. Then, for the good of your Friends and Posterity, stir not from this place.

Sir Cred. Good Lord, Lodwick, thou art the strangest Man,—what do you mean to fright a body thus?

Lod. You remember the Serenade last night?

Sir Cred. Remember it? Zoz, I think I do, here be the marks on't sure.— [Pulls off his Peruke, and shews his Head broke.

Lod. Ads me, your Head's broke.

Sir Cred. My Head broke! why, 'twas a hundred to one but my Neck had been broke.

Lod. Faith, not unlikely,—you know the next House is Sir Patient Fancy's; Isabella too, you know, is his Daughter.

Sir Cred. Yes, yes, she was by when I made my dumb Oration.

Lod. The same,—this Lady has a Lover, a mad, furious, fighting, killing Hector, (as you know there are enough about this Town) this Monsieur supposing you to be a Rival, and that your Serenade was address'd to her—

Sir Cred. Enough, I understand you, set those Rogues on to murder me.

Lod. Wou'd 'twere no worse.

Sir Cred. Worse! Zoz, Man, what the Devil can be worse?

Lod. Why, he has vow'd to kill you himself wherever he meets you, and now waits below to that purpose.

Sir Cred. Sha, sha, if that be all, I'll to him immediately, and make Affidavit I never had any such design. Madam Isabella! ha, ha, alas, poor man, I have some body else to think on.

Lod. Affidavit! why, he'll not believe you, should you swear your Heart out: some body has possess'd him that you are a damn'd Fool, and a most egregious Coward, a Fellow that to save your Life will swear any thing.

Sir Cred. What cursed Luck's this!—why, how came he to know I liv'd here?

Lod. I believe he might have it from Leander, who is his Friend.

Sir Cred. Leander! I must confess I never lik'd that Leander since yesterday.

Lod. He has deceiv'd us all, that's the truth on't; for I have lately found out too, that he's your Rival, and has a kind of a—

Sir Cred. Smattering to my Mistress, hah, and therefore wou'd not be wanting to give me a lift out of this World; but I shall give her such a go-by—my Lady Knowell understands the difference between three Thousand a Year, and—prithee what's his Estate?

Lod. Shaw—not sufficient to pay Surgeons Bills.

Sir Cred. Alas, poor Rat, how does he live then?

Lod. Hang him, the Ladies keep him; 'tis a good handsome Fellow, and has a pretty Town-Wit.

Sir Cred. He a Wit! what, I'll warrant he writes Lampoons, rails at Plays, curses all Poetry but his own, and mimicks the Players—ha.

Lod. Some such common Notions he has that deceives the ignorant Rabble, amongst whom he passes for a very smart Fellow,—'life, he's here.

Enter Leander.

Sir Cred. Why, what shall I do, he will not affront me before Company? hah!

Lod. Not in our House, Sir,—bear up and take no notice on't. [Lod. whispers Lean.

Sir Cred. No notice, quoth he? why, my very Fears will betray me.

Lean. Let me alone—Lodwick, I met just now with an Italian Merchant, who has made me such a Present!

Lod. What is't prithee?

Lean. A Sort of specifick Poison for all the Senses, especially for that of smelling; so that had I a Rival, and I should see him at any reasonable distance, I could direct a little of this Scent up to his Brain so subtlely, that it shall not fail of Execution in a day or two.

Sir Cred. How—Poison! [Shewing great Signs of Fear, and holding his Nose.

Lean. Nay, shou'd I see him in the midst of a thousand People, I can so direct it, that it shall assault my Enemy's Nostrils only, without any effects on the rest of the Company.

Sir Cred. Oh,—I'm a dead Man!

Lod. Is't possible?

Lean. Perhaps some little sneezing or so, no harm; but my Enemy's a dead Man, Sir, kill'd.

Sir Cred. Why, this is the most damn'd Italian Trick I ever heard of; why, this outdoes the famous Poisoner Madam Brenvilliers; well, here's no jesting, I perceive that, Lodwick.

Lod. Fear nothing, I'll secure you. [Aside to him.

Enter Wittmore.

—Wittmore! how is't, Friend! thou lookest cloudy.

Wit. You'll hardly blame me, Gentlemen, when you shall know what a damn'd unfortunate Rascal I am.

Lod. Prithee what's the matter?

Wit. Why, I am to be marry'd, Gentlemen, marry'd to day.

Lod. How, marry'd! nay, Gad, then thou'st reason; but to whom prithee?

Wit. There's the Devil on't again, to a fine young fair, brisk Woman, that has all the Temptations Heaven can give her.

Lod. What pity 'tis they shou'd be bestow'd to so wicked an end! Is this your Intrigue, that has been so long conceal'd from your Friends?

Lean. We thought it had been some kind Amour, something of Love and Honour.

Lod. Is she rich? if she be wondrous rich, we'll excuse thee.

Wit. Her Fortune will be suitable to the Jointure I shall make her.

Lod. Nay then 'tis like to prove a hopeful Match; what a Pox can provoke thee to this, dost love her?

Wit. No, there's another Plague, I am cursedly in love elsewhere; and this was but a false Address, to hide that real one.

Lod. How, love another? in what quality and manner?

Wit. As a Man ought to love, with a good substantial Passion, without any design but that of right-down honest Injoyment.

Lod. Ay, now we understand thee, this is something. Ah Friend, I had such an Adventure last Night.—You may talk of your Intrigues and substantial Pleasures, but if any of you can match mine,—Egad, I'll forswear Womankind.

Lean. An Adventure! prithee where?

Sir Cred. What, last Night, when you rescued me from the Bilbo-Blades! indeed ye look'd a little furiously.

Lod. I had reason, I was just then come out of a Garden from fighting with a Man whom I found with my Mistress; and I had at least known who't had been, but for the coming of those Rascals that set on you, who parted us, whilst he made his escape in the Croud.

Wit. Death! that was I, who for fear of being known got away: was't he then that I fought with, and whom I learnt lov'd Isabella? [Aside.

Lod. You must know, Gentlemen, I have a sort of a matrimonial Kindness for a very pretty Woman, she whom I tell you I disturb'd in the Garden, and last night she made me an Assignation in her Chamber: when I came to the Garden-door by which I was to have admittance, I found a kind of Necessary call'd a Baudy Waiting-Woman, whom I follow'd, and thought she wou'd have conducted me to the right Woman; but I was luckily and in the dark led into a Lady's Chamber, who took me for a Lover she expected: I found my happy mistake, and wou'd not undeceive her.

Wit. This could be none but Lucia. [Aside. —Well, Sir, and what did you do there?

Lod. Do! why, what dost think? all that a Man inspir'd by Love cou'd do, I followed all the dictates of Nature, Youth, and Vigor.

Wit. Oh, hold, my Heart—or I shall kill the Traitor. [Aside.

Sir Cred. Follow'd all the dictates of Nature, Youth and Vigor! prithee what's that?

Lod. I kiss'd a thousand times her balmy Lips, and greedily took in the nimble Sighs she breath'd into my Soul.

Wit. Oh, I can scarce contain my self. [Aside.

Sir Cred. Pshaw, is that all, Man?

Lod. I clasp'd her lovely Body in my Arms, And laid my Bosom to her panting Breast. Trembling she seem'd all Love and soft Desire, And I all Burnings in a youthful Fire.

Sir Cred. Bless us, the Man's in a Rapture!

Wit. Damnation on them both.

Sir Cred. Well, to the point, Man: what didst do all this while?

Lean. Faith, I fancy he did not sleep, Sir Credulous.

Lod. No, Friend, she had too many Charms to keep me waking.

Sir Cred. Had she so? I shou'd have beg'd her Charms pardon, I tell her that though.

Wit. Curse on my Sloth, Oh, how shall I dissemble? [Aside.

Lean. Thy Adventure was pretty lucky—but, Wittmore, thou dost not relish it.

Wit. My Mind's upon my Marriage, Sir; if I thought he lov'd Isabella, I wou'd marry her to be reveng'd on him, at least I'll vex his Soul, as he has tortur'd mine.—Well, Gentlemen, you'll dine with me,—and give me your opinion of my Wife.

Lod. Where dost thou keep the Ceremony?

Wit. At Sir Patient Fancy's, my Father-in-law.

Lod. How! Sir Patient Fancy to be your Father-in-law?

Lean. My Uncle?

Wit. He's fir'd,—'tis his Daughter, Sir, I am to marry.—

Lod. Isabella! Leander, can it be? can she consent to this? and can she love you?

Wit. Why, Sir, what do you see in me, shou'd render me unfit to be belov'd? [Angry.

Lod. Marry'd to day! by Heaven, it must not be, Sir. [Draws him aside.

Wit. Why, Sir, I hope this is not the kind Lady who was so soft, so sweet and charming last night.

Lod. Hold, Sir,—we yet are Friends.—

Wit. And might have still been so, hadst thou not basely rob'd me of my Interest.

Lod. Death, do you speak my Language? [Ready to draw.

Wit. No, take a secret from my angry Heart, which all its Friendship to thee cou'd not make me utter;—it was my Mistress you surpriz'd last night.

Lod. Hah, my Lady Fancy his Mistress? Curse on my prating Tongue. [Aside.

Sir Cred. What a Devil's all this, hard Words, Heart-burnings, Resentments, and all that?

Lean. You are not quarrelling, I hope, my Friends?

Lod. All this, Sir, we suspected, and smok'd your borrowing Money last night; and what I said was to gain the mighty secret that had been so long kept from your Friends:—but thou hast done a baseness— [Lays his Hand on his Sword.

Lean. Hold, what's the matter?

Wit. Did you not rob me of the Victory then I've been so long a toiling for?

Lod. If I had, 'twould not have made her guilty, nor me a Criminal; she taking me for one she lov'd, and I her for one that had no Interest in my Friend: and who the Devil wou'd have refus'd so fine a Woman? Nor had I but that I was prevented by her Husband.—But Isabella, Sir, you must resign.

Wit. I will, provided that our Friendship's safe; I am this day to marry her, and if you can find a means to do't in my room, I shall resign my Interest to my Friend; for 'tis the lovely Mother I adore.

Lod. And was it you I fought with in the Garden?

Wit. Yes, and thereby hangs a tale of a mistake almost equal to thine, which I'll at leisure tell you. [Talks to Lod. and Lean.

Sir Cred. I'm glad they're Friends; Zoz, here was like to have been a pretty Business; what damnable work this same Womankind makes in a Nation of Fools that are Lovers?

Wit. Look ye, I am a damn'd dull Fellow at Invention, I'll therefore leave you to contrive matters by your selves, whilst I'll go try how kind Fortune will be to me this Morning, and see in what readiness my Bride is. What you do must be thought on suddenly; I'll wait on you anon, and let you know how matters go.—I'm as impatient to know the truth of this, as for an opportunity to enjoy Lucia. [Goes out.

Lod. Leander, what shall I do?

Lean. You were best consult your Mother and Sister; Women are best at Intrigues of this kind: But what becomes of me?

Lod. Let me alone to dispatch this Fool, I long to have him out of the way, he begins to grow troublesome:—but now my Mother expects you.

Lean. Prithee be careful of me.— [Exit Lean.

Sir Cred. What was this long Whisper, something about me?

Lod. Why, yes, faith, I was persuading him to speak to his Friend about this Business; but he swears there's no hopes of a Reconciliation: you are a dead Man, unless some cleanly conveyance of you be soon thought on.

Sir Cred. Why, I'll keep within doors, and defy Malice and foul Weather.

Lod. Oh, he means to get a Warrant, and search for stolen Goods, prohibited Commodities or Conventicles; there's a thousand Civil Pretences in this Town to commit Outrages—let me see.— [They both pause a while.

Sir Cred. Well, I have thought,—and of such a Business, that the Devil's in't if you don't say I am a man of Intrigue.

Lod. What is't?

Sir Cred. Ha, ha, ha, I must have leave to laugh to think how neatly I shall defeat this Son of a Whore of a thunder thumping Hector.

Lod. Be serious, Sir, this is no laughing matter; if I might advise, you should steal into the Country, for two or three days, till the Business be blown over.

Sir Cred. Lord, thou art so hasty and conceited of thy own Invention, thou wilt not give a Man leave to think in thy company: why, these were my very thoughts; nay more, I have found a way to get off clever, though he watch me as narrowly as an enraged Serjeant upon an Escape.

Lod. That indeed wou'd be a Master-piece.

Sir Cred. Why, look ye, do you see that great Basket there?

Lod. I do,—this you mean.— [Pulls in a Basket.

Sir Cred. Very well, put me into this Basket, and cord me down, send for a couple of Porters, hoist me away with a Direction, to an old Uncle of mine, one Sir Anthony Bubleton at Bubleton-Hall in Essex; and then whip slap-dash, as Nokes says in the Play, I'm gone, and who's the wiser?

Lod. I like it well.

Sir Cred. Nay, lose no time in applauding, I'll in, the Carrier goes this Morning; farewel, Lodwick.— [Goes Into the Basket. I'll be here again on Thursday. [Lod. writes a Direction.

Enter Boy.

Lod. By all means, Sir,—Who's there,—call a couple of Porters. [Exit Boy.

Sir Cred. One word more, the Carrier lies at the Bell in Friday-street, pray take care they set me not on my Head.— [Pops in again.

Enter Boy and two Porters.

Lod. Come hither, cord up this Basket, and carry it where he shall direct.—Leander will never think he's free from a Rival, till he have him in his possession—To Mr. Leander Fancy's at the next door; say 'tis things for him out of the Country.—Write a Direction to him on the Basket-lid. [Aside to the Boy. [Porters going to carry off the Basket on a long Pole between 'em.

Enter Lady Knowell.

L. Kno. What's this? whither goes this Basket?

Sir Cred. Ah Lord! they are come with the Warrant. [Peeps out of the Basket.

Lod. Only Books, Madam, offer'd me to buy, but they do not please me.

L. Kno. Books! nay then set down the Basket, Fellows, and let me peruse 'em; who are their Authors, and what their Language?

Sir Cred. A pox of all Learning, I say,—'tis my Mother-in-law. [Porters going to set down the Basket.

Lod. Hold, hold, Madam, they are only English and some Law-French.

L. Kno. Oh, faugh, how I hate that vile sort of Reading! up with 'em again, Fellows, and away. [The Porters take up and go out.

Lod. God-a-mercy, Law-French. [Aside.

L. Kno. Law-French! out upon't, I cou'd find in my heart to have the Porters bring it back, and have it burnt for a Heresy to Learning.

Lod. Or thrown into the Thames, that it may float back to Normandy, to have the Language new modell'd.

L. Kno. You say well; but what's all this ad Iphicli bonis, where's Sir Credulous all this while? his Affairs expect him.

Lod. So does Leander your Ladyship within.

L. Kno. Leander! Hymen, Hymenae, I'll wait on him, Lodwick; I am resolv'd you shall marry Isabella too; I have a design in my head that cannot fail to give you the possession of her within this two or three hours.

Lod. Such an Indulgence will make me the happiest of Men, and I have something to say to your Ladyship that will oblige you to hasten the design.

L. Kno. Come in, and let me know it.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II. A Chamber in Sir Patient Fancy's House. A Table and Chairs.

Enter Lady Fancy in a Morning-dress, Maundy with Pen, Ink and Paper.

L. Fan. Wittmore in the Garden, sayst thou, with Isabella! Oh perjur'd Man! it was by his contrivance then I was betray'd last night.

Maun. I thought so too at first, Madam, till going to conduct Mr. Knowell through the Garden, he finding Mr. Wittmore there with Isabella drew on him, and they both fought out of the Garden: what mischief's done I know not.—But, Madam, I hope Mr. Knowell was not uncivil to your Ladyship. I had no time to ask what pass'd between you.

L. Fan. Oh, name it not: I gave him all I had reserv'd for Wittmore. I was so possess'd with the thoughts of that dear false one, I had no sense free to perceive the cheat:—but I will be reveng'd.—Come let me end my Letter, we are safe from interruption.

Maun. Yes, Madam, Sir Patient is not yet up, the Doctors have been with him, and tell him he is not so bad as we persuaded him.

L. Fan. And was he soft and kind?—By all that's good, she loves him, and they contriv'd this meeting.—My Pen and Ink—I am impatient to unload my Soul of this great weight of Jealousy.— [Sits down, and writes.

Enter Sir Patient, looking over her Shoulder a tip-toe.

Maun. Heaven! here's Sir Patient, Madam.

L. Fan. Hah,—and 'tis too late to hide the Paper; I was just going to subscribe my Name.

Sir Pat. Good morrow, my Lady Fancy, your Ladyship is well employ'd, I see.

L. Fan. Indeed I was, and pleasantly too: I am writing a Love-letter, Sir.—But, my Dear, what makes you so soon up?

Sir Pat. A Love-letter!—let me see't. [Goes to take it.

L. Fan. I'll read it to you, Sir.

Maun. What mean you, Madam? [Aside.

Lady Fancy reads.

It was but yesterday you swore you lov'd me, and I poor easy Fool believ'd; but your last Night's Infidelity has undeceiv'd my Heart, and render'd you the falsest Man that ever Woman sigh'd for. Tell me, how durst you, when I had prepared all things for our Enjoyment, be so great a Devil to deceive my languishing Expectations? and in your room send one that has undone

Your—

Maun. Sure she's mad to read this to him.

Sir Pat. Hum,—I profess ingenuously—I think it is indeed a Love-letter. My Lady Fancy, what means all this? as I take it, here are Riddles and Mysteries in this Business.

L. Fan. Which thus, Sir, I'll unfold.— [Takes the Pen, and writes Isabella.

Sir Pat. How! undone—Your—Isabella, meaning my Daughter?

L. Fan. Yes, my Dear, going this morning into her Chamber, she not being there, I took up a Letter that lay open on her Table, and out of curiosity read it; as near as I can remember 'twas to this purpose: I writ it out now, because I had a mind thou shou'dst see't; for I can hide nothing from thee.

Sir Pat. A very good Lady, I profess! to whom is it directed?

L. Fan. Why,—Sir—What shall I say, I cannot lay it now on Lodwick— [Aside. I believe she meant it to Mr. Fainlove, for whom else cou'd it be design'd? she being so soon to marry him.

Sir Pat. Hah,—Mr. Fainlove! so soon so fond and amorous!

L. Fan. Alas, 'tis the excusable fault of all young Women, thou knowst I was just such another Fool to thee, so fond—and so in love.—

Sir Pat. Ha,—thou wert indeed, my Lady Fancy, indeed thou wert.—But I will keep the Letter however, that this idle Baggage may know I understand her Tricks and Intrigues. [Puts up the Letter.

L. Fan. Nay then 'twill out: No, I beseech you, Sir, give me the Letter, I wou'd not for the World Isabella shou'd know of my theft, 'twou'd appear malicious in me:—Besides, Sir, it does not befit your Gravity to be concern'd in the little Quarrels of Lovers.

Sir Pat. Lovers! Tell me not of Lovers, my Lady Fancy; with Reverence to your good Ladyship, I value not whether there be Love between 'em or not. Pious Wedlock is my Business,—nay, I will let him know his own too, that I will, with your Ladyship's permission.

L. Fan. How unlucky I am!—Sir, as to his Chastisement, use your own discretion, in which you do abound most plentifully. But pray let not Isabella hear of it; for as I wou'd preserve my Duty to thee, by communicating all things to thee, so I wou'd conserve my good Opinion with her.

Sir Pat. Ah, what a Blessing I possess in so excellent a Wife! and in regard I am every day descending to my Grave.—ah—I will no longer hide from thee the Provision I have made for thee, in case I die.—

L. Fan. This is the Musick that I long'd to hear.—Die!—Oh, that fatal Word will kill me— [Weeps. Name it no more, if you'd preserve my Life.

Sir Pat. Hah—now cannot I refrain joining with her in affectionate Tears.—No, but do not weep for me, my excellent Lady, for I have made a pretty competent Estate for thee. Eight thousand Pounds, which I have conceal'd in my Study behind the Wainscot on the left hand as you come in.

L. Fan. Oh, tell me not of transitory Wealth, for I'm resolv'd not to survive thee. Eight thousand Pound say you?—Oh, I cannot endure the thoughts on't. [Weeps.

Sir Pat. Eight thousand Pounds just, my dearest Lady.

L. Fan. Oh, you'll make me desperate in naming it,—is it in Gold or Silver?

Sir Pat. In Gold, my dearest, the most part, the rest in Silver.

L. Fan. Good Heavens! why should you take such pleasure in afflicting me? [Weeps.] —Behind the Wainscot say you?

Sir Pat. Behind the Wainscot, prithee be pacified,—thou makest me lose my greatest Virtue, Moderation, to see thee thus: alas, we're all born to die.—

L. Fan. Again of dying! Uncharitable Man, why do you delight in tormenting me?—On the left hand, say you as you go in?

Sir Pat. On the left hand, my Love: had ever Man such a Wife?

L. Fan. Oh, my Spirits fail me—lead me, or I shall faint,—lead me to the Study, and shew me where 'tis,—for I am able to hear no more of it.

Sir Pat. I will, if you will promise indeed and indeed, not to grieve too much. [Going to lead her out.

Enter Wittmore.

Wit. Heaven grant me some kind opportunity to speak with Lucia! hah, she's here,—and with her the fond Cuckold her Husband.—Death, he has spy'd me, there's no avoiding him.—

Sir Pat. Oh, are you there, Sir?—Maundy, look to my Lady,—I take it, Sir, you have not dealt well with a Person of my Authority and Gravity. [Gropes for the Letter in his pocket.

Wit. So this can be nothing less than my being found out to be no Yorkshire Esq; a Pox of my Geneva Breeding; it must be so, what the Devil shall I say now?

Sir Pat. And this disingenuous dealing does ill become the Person you have represented, I take it.

Wit. Represented! ay, there 'tis, wou'd I were handsomely off o' this Business; neither Lucia nor Maundy have any intelligence in their demure looks that can instruct a Man.—Why, faith, Sir,—I must confess,—I am to blame—and that I have—a—

L. Fan. Oh, Maundy, he'll discover all, what shall we do?

Sir Pat. Have what, Sir?

Wit. From my violent Passion for your Daughter—

L. Fan. Oh, I'm all Confusion.—

Wit. Egad, I am i'th wrong, I see by Lucia's Looks.

Sir Pat. That you have, Sir, you wou'd say, made a Sport and May-game of the Ingagement of your Word; I take it, Mr. Fainlove, 'tis not like the Stock you come from.

Wit. Yes, I was like to have spoil'd all, 'sheart, what fine work I had made—but most certainly he has discover'd my Passion for his Wife.—Well, Impudence assist me—I made, Sir, a trifle of my Word, Sir! from whom have you this Intelligence?

Sir Pat. From whom shou'd I, Sir, but from my Daughter Isabella?

Wit. Isabella! The malicious Baggage understood to whom my first Courtship was address'd last Night, and has betray'd me.

Sir Pat. And, Sir, to let you see I utter nothing without Precaution, pray read that Letter.

Wit. Hah—a Letter! what can this mean,—'tis Lucia's Hand, with Isabella's Name to't.—Oh, the dear cunning Creature, to make her Husband the Messenger too.—How, I send one in my room! [He reads.

L. Fan. Yes, Sir, you think we do not know of the Appointment you made last Night; but having other Affairs in hand than to keep your Promise, you sent Mr. Knowell in your room,—false Man.

Wit. I send him, Madam! I wou'd have sooner died.

Sir Pat. Sir, as I take it, he cou'd not have known of your Designs and Rendezvous without your Informations.—Were not you to have met my Daughter here to night, Sir?

Wit. Yes, Sir, and I hope 'tis no such great Crime, to desire a little Conversation with the fair Person one loves, and is so soon to marry, which I was hinder'd from doing by the greatest and most unlucky Misfortune that ever arriv'd: but for my sending him, Madam, credit me, nothing so much amazes me and afflicts me, as to know he was here.

Sir Pat. He speaks well, ingenuously, he does.—Well, Sir, for your Father's sake, whose Memory I reverence, I will for once forgive you. But let's have no more Night-works, no more Gambols, I beseech you, good Mr. Fainlove.

Wit. I humbly thank ye, Sir, and do beseech you to tell the dear Creature that writ this, that I love her more than Life or Fortune, and that I wou'd sooner have kill'd the Man that usurp'd my place last Night, than have assisted him.

L. Fan. Were you not false, then?—Now hang me if I do not credit him. [Aside.

Sir Pat. Alas, good Lady! how she's concern'd for my Interest, she's even jealous for my Daughter. [Aside.

Wit. False! charge me not with unprofitable Sins; wou'd I refuse a Blessing, or blaspheme a Power that might undo me? wou'd I die in my full vigorous Health, or live in constant Pain? All this I cou'd, sooner than be untrue.

Sir Pat. Ingenuously, my Lady Fancy, he speaks discreetly, and to purpose.

L. Fan. Indeed, my Dear, he does, and like an honest Gentleman: and I shou'd think my self very unreasonable not to believe him.—And, Sir, I'll undertake your Peace shall be made with your Mistress.

Sir Pat. Well, I am the most fortunate Man in a Wife, that ever had the blessing of a good one.

Wit. Madam, let me fall at your Feet, and thank you for this Bounty.—Make it your own case, and then consider what returns ought to be made to the most passionate and faithful of Lovers. [Kneels.

Sir Pat. I profess a wonderful good natur'd Youth, this; rise, Sir, my Lady Fancy shall do you all the kind Offices she can, o' my word, she shall.

L. Fan. I'm all Obedience, Sir, and doubtless shall obey you.

Sir Pat. You must, indeed you must; and, Sir, I'll defer your Happiness no longer, this Day you shall be marry'd.

Wit. This Day, Sir!—why, the Writings are not made.

Sir Pat. No matter, Mr. Fainlove; her Portion shall be equivalent to the Jointure you shall make her, I take it, that's sufficient.

Wit. A Jointure, quoth he! it must be in new Eutopian Land then.—And must I depart thus, without a kind Word, a Look, or a Billet, to signify what I am to expect. [Looking on her slily.

Sir Pat. Come, my Lady Fancy, shall I wait on you down to Prayer! Sir, you will get your self in order for your Marriage, the great Affair of human Life; I must to my Morning's Devotion: Come, Madam. [She endeavours to make Signs to Wittmore.

L. Fan. Alas, Sir, the sad Discourse you lately made me, has so disorder'd me, and given me such a Pain in my Head, I am not able to endure the Psalm-singing.

Sir Pat. This comes of your Weeping; but we'll omit that part of th' Exercise, and have no Psalm sung.

L. Fan. Oh, by no means, Sir, 'twill scandalize the Brethren; for you know a Psalm is not sung so much out of Devotion, as 'tis to give notice of our Zeal and pious Intentions: 'tis a kind of Proclamation to the Neighbourhood, and cannot be omitted.—Oh, how my Head aches!

Wit. He were a damn'd dull Lover, that cou'd not guess what she meant by this. [Aside.

Sir Pat. Well, my Lady Fancy, your Ladyship shall be obey'd,—come, Sir, we'll leave her to her Women. [Exit Sir Pat. [As Wittmore goes out, he bows and looks on her; she gives him a Sign.

Wit. That kind Look is a sufficient Invitation. [Exit.

L. Fan. Maundy, follow 'em down, and bring Wittmore back again.— [Exit Maun.] There's now a necessity of our contriving to avoid this Marriage handsomly,—and we shall at least make two Hours our own; I never wish'd well to long Prayers till this Minute.

Enter Wittmore.

Wit. Oh my dear Lucia!

L. Fan. Oh Wittmore! I long to tell thee what a fatal Mistake had like to have happened last Night.

Wit. My Friend has told me all, and how he was prevented by the coming of your Husband from robbing me of those sacred Delights I languish for. Oh, let us not lose inestimable Time in dull talking; but haste to give each other the only Confirmation we can give, how little we are our own.

L. Fan. I see Lodwick's a Man of Honour, and deserves a Heart if I had one to give him.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III. A Hall.

Enter Sir Patient and Roger.

Sir Pat. Roger, is Prayer ready, Roger?

Rog. Truly nay, Sir, for Mr. Gogle has taken too much of the Creature this Morning, and is not in case, Sir.

Sir Pat. How mean you, Sirrah, that Mr. Gogle is overtaken with Drink?

Rog. Nay, Sir, he hath over-eaten himself at Breakfast only.

Sir Pat. Alas, and that's soon done, for he hath a sickly Stomach as well as I, poor Man. Where is Bartholomew the Clerk? he must hold forth then to day.

Rog. Verily he is also disabled: for going forth last Night by your Commandment to smite the Wicked, he received a blow over the Pericranium.—

Sir Pat. Why, how now, Sirrah, Latin! the Language of the Beast! hah—and what then, Sir?

Rog. Which Blow, I doubt, Sir, hath spoil'd both his Praying and his Eating.

Sir Pat. Hah! What a Family's here? no Prayer to day!

Enter Nurse and Fanny.

Nurs. Nay verily it shall all out, I will be no more the dark Lanthorn to the deeds of Darkness.

Sir Pat. What's the matter here? [Exit Roger.

Nurs. Sir, this young Sinner has long been privy to all the daily and nightly meetings between Mr. Lodwick and Isabella; and just now I took her tying a Letter to a String in the Garden, which he drew up to his Window: and I have born it till my Conscience will bear it no longer.

Sir Pat. Hah, so young a Baud!—Tell me, Minion—private meeting! tell me truth, I charge ye, when? where? how? and how often? Oh, she's debauch'd!—her Reputation ruin'd, and she'll need a double Portion. Come, tell me truth, for this little Finger here has told me all.

Fan. Oh Geminy, Sir, then that little Finger's the hougesest great Lyer as ever was.

Sir Pat. Huzzy, huzzy—I will have thee whip'd most unmercifully: Nurse, fetch me the Rod.

Fan. Oh, pardon me, Sir, this one time, and I'll tell all. [Kneels. —Sir—I have seen him in the Garden, but not very often.

Sir Pat. Often! Oh, my Family's dishonoured. Tell me truly what he us'd to do there, or I will have thee whipt without cessation. Oh, I'm in a cold Sweat; there's my fine Maid, was he with her long?

Fan. Long enough.

Sir Pat. Long enough!—oh, 'tis so, long enough,—for what, hah? my dainty Miss, tell me, and didst thou leave 'em?

Fan. They us'd to send me to gather Flowers to make Nosegays, Sir.

Sir Pat. Ah, Demonstration; 'tis evident if they were left alone that they were naught, I know't.—And where were they the while? in the close Arbour?—Ay, ay—I will have it cut down, it is the Pent-house of Iniquity, the very Coverlid of Sin.

Fan. No, Sir, they sat on the Primrose Bank.

Sir Pat. What, did they sit all the while, or stand—or—lie—or—oh, how was't?

Fan. They only sat indeed, Sir Father.

Sir Pat. And thou didst not hear a Word they said all the while?

Fan. Yes, I did, Sir, and the Man talk'd a great deal of this, and of that, and of t'other, and all the while threw Jessamine in her Bosom.

Sir Pat. Well said, and did he nothing else?

Fan. No, indeed, Sir Father, nothing.

Sir Pat. But what did she say to the Man again?

Fan. She said, let me see.—Ay, she said, Lord, you'll forget your self, and stay till somebody catch us.

Sir Pat. Ah, very fine,—then what said he?

Fan. Then he said, Well if I must be gone, let me leave thee with this hearty Curse, A Pox take thee all over for making me love thee so confoundedly.

Sir Pat. Oh horrible!

Fan. —Oh, I cou'd live here for ever,—that was when he kist her—her Hand only. Are you not a damn'd Woman for making so fond a Puppy of me?

Sir Pat. Oh unheard-of Wickedness!

Fan. Wou'd the Devil had thee, and all thy Family, e'er I had seen thy cursed Face.

Sir Pat. Oh, I'll hear no more, I'll hear no more!—why, what a blasphemous Wretch is this?

Fan. Pray, Sir Father, do not tell my Sister of this, she'll be horribly angry with me.

Sir Pat. No, no, get you gone.—Oh, I am Heart-sick—I'll up and consult with my Lady what's fit to be done in this Affair. Oh, never was the like heard of.— [Goes out, Fanny and Nurse go the other way.

SCENE IV. The Lady Fancy's Bed-Chamber; she's discover'd with Wittmore in disorder. A Table, Sword, and Hat.

Maun. [Entering.] O Madam, Sir Patient's coming up.

L. Fan. Coming up, say you!

Maun. He's almost on the top of the Stairs, Madam.

Wit. What shall I do?

L. Fan. Oh, damn him, I know not; if he see thee here after my pretended Illness, he must needs discover why I feign'd.—I have no excuse ready,—this Chamber's unlucky, there's no avoiding him; here—step behind the Bed; perhaps he has only forgot his Psalm-Book and will not stay long. [Wittmore runs behind the Bed.

Enter Sir Patient.

Sir Pat. Oh, oh, pardon this Interruption, my Lady Fancy—Oh, I am half killed, my Daughter, my Honour—my Daughter, my Reputation.

L. Fan. Good Heavens, Sir, is she dead?

Sir Pat. I wou'd she were, her Portion and her Honour would then be sav'd. But oh, I'm sick at Heart, Maundy, fetch me the Bottle of Mirabilis in the Closet,—she's wanton, unchaste.

Enter Maundy with the Bottle.

Oh, I cannot speak it; oh, the Bottle— [Drinks.] she has lost her Fame, her Shame, her Name.—Oh, [Drinks.] that is not the right Bottle, that with the red Cork [Drinks.]

[Exit Maundy.

and is grown a very t'other-end-of-the-Town Creature, a very Apple of Sodom, fair without and filthy within, what shall we do with her? she's lost, undone; hah!

Enter Maundy.

let me see, [Drinks.] this is [Drinks.] not as I take it— [Drinks.] —no, 'tis not the right,—she's naught, she's leud, [Drinks.] —oh, how you vex me— [Drinks.] This is not the right Bottle yet,— [Drinks.] No, no, here. [Gives her the Bottle.

Maun. You said that with the red Cork, Sir. [Goes out.

Sir Pat. I meant the blue;—I know not what I say.— In fine, my Lady, let's marry her out of hand, for she is fall'n, fall'n to Perdition; she understands more Wickedness than had she been bred in a profane Nunnery, a Court,

Enter Maundy.

or a Play-house, [Drinks.] —therefore let's marry her instantly, out of hand [Drinks.] Misfortune on Misfortune. [Drinks.] —But Patience is a wonderful Virtue, [Drinks.] —Ha—this is very comfortable,—very consoling—I profess if it were not for these Creatures, ravishing Comforts, sometimes, a Man were a very odd sort of an Animal [Drinks.] But ah—see how all things were ordain'd for the use and comfort of Man. [Drinks.]

L. Fan. I like this well: Ah, Sir, 'tis very true, therefore receive it plentifully and thankfully.

Sir Pat. [Drinks.] Ingenuously—it hath made me marvellous lightsome; I profess it hath a very notable Faculty,—very knavish—and as it were, waggish,—but hah, what have we there on the Table? a Sword and Hat? [Sees Wittmore's Sword and Hat on the Table, which he had forgot.

L. Fan. Curse on my Dulness.—Oh, these, Sir, they are Mr. Fainlove's—he being so soon to be marry'd and being straitned for time, sent these to Maundy to be new trim'd with Ribbon, Sir—that's all. Take 'em away, you naughty Baggage, must I have Mens things seen in my Chamber?

Sir Pat. Nay, nay, be not angry, my little Rogue; I like the young Man's Frugality well. Go, go your ways, get you gone, and finefy your Knacks and Tranghams, and do your Business—go. [Smiling on Maundy, gently beating her with his Hand: she goes out, he bolts the Door after her, and sits down on the Bed's feet.

L. Fan. Heavens, what means he!

Sir Pat. Come hither to me, my little Ape's Face,—Come, come I say—what, must I come fetch you?—Catch her, catch her—catch her, catch her, catch her. [Running after her.

L. Fan. Oh, Sir, I am so ill I can hardly stir.

Sir Pat. I'll make ye well, come hither, ye Monky-face, did it, did it, did it? alas for it, a poor silly Fool's Face, dive it a blow, and I'll beat it.

L. Fan. You neglect your Devotion, Sir.

Sir Pat. No, no, no Prayer to day, my little Rascal,—no Prayer to day—poor Gogle's sick.—Come hither, why, you refractory Baggage you, come or I shall touze you, ingenuously I shall; tom, tom, or I'll whip it.

L. Fan. Have you forgot your Daughter, Sir, and your Disgrace?

Sir Pat. A fiddle on my Daughter, she's a Chick of the old Cock I profess; I was just such another Wag when young.—But she shall be marry'd to morrow, a good Cloke for her Knavery; therefore come your ways, ye Wag, we'll take a nap together: good faith, my little Harlot, I mean thee no harm.

L. Fan. No, o' my Conscience.

Sir Pat. Why then, why then, you little Mungrel?

L. Fan. His precise Worship is as it were disguis'd, the outward Man is over-taken—pray, Sir, lie down, and I'll come to you presently.

Sir Pat. Away, you Wag, will you? will you?—Catch her there, catch her.

L. Fan. I will indeed,—Death, there's no getting from him,—pray lie down—and I'll cover thee close enough I'll warrant thee.— [Aside. [He lies down, she covers him. Had ever Lovers such spiteful luck! hah—surely he sleeps, bless the mistaken Bottle.—Ay, he sleeps,—whilst, Wittmore— [He coming out falls; pulls the Chair down, Sir Patient flings open the Curtain.

Wit. Plague of my over-care, what shall I do?

Sir Pat. What's that, what Noise is that? let me see, we are not safe; lock up the Doors, what's the matter? What Thunder-Clap was that? [Wittmore runs under the Bed; she runs to Sir Patient, and holds him in his Bed.

L. Fan. Pray, Sir, lie still, 'twas I was only going to sit down, and a sudden Giddiness took me in my Head, which made me fall, and with me the Chair; there is no danger near ye, Sir—I was just coming to sleep by you.

Sir Pat. Go, you're a flattering Huswife; go, catch her, catch her, catch her. [Lies down, she covers him.

L. Fan. Oh, how I tremble at the dismal apprehension of being discover'd! Had I secur'd my self of the eight thousand Pound, I wou'd not value Wittmore's being seen. But now to be found out, wou'd call my Wit in question, for 'tis the Fortunate alone are wise.— [Wittmore peeps from under the Bed; she goes softly to the Door to open it.

Wit. Was ever Man so plagu'd?—hah—what's this?—confound my tell-tale Watch, the Larum goes, and there's no getting to't to silence it.—Damn'd Misfortune! [Sir Patient rises, and flings open the Curtains.

Sir Pat. Hah, what's that?

L. Fan. Heavens! what's the matter? we are destin'd to discovery. [She runs to Sir Patient, and leaves the Door still fast.

Sir Pat. What's that I say, what's that? let me see, let me see, what ringing's that, Oh, let me see what 'tis. [Strives to get up, she holds him down.

L. Fan. Oh, now I see my Fate's inevitable! Alas, that ever I was born to see't. [Weeps.

Wit. Death, she'll tell him I am here: Nay, he must know't, a Pox of all Invention and Mechanicks, and he were damn'd that first contriv'd a Watch.

Sir Pat. Hah, dost weep?—why dost weep? I say, what Noise is that? what ringing? hah.—

L. Fan. 'Tis that, 'tis that, my Dear, that makes me weep. Alas, I never hear this fatal Noise, but some dear Friend dies.

Sir Pat. Hah, dies! Oh, that must be I, ay, ay, Oh.

L. Fan. I've heard it, Sir, this two Days, but wou'd not tell you of it.

Sir Pat. Hah! heard it these two Days! Oh, what is't a Death-watch?—hah.—

L. Fan. Ay, Sir, a Death-watch, a certain Larum Death-watch, a thing that has warn'd our Family this hundred Years, oh,—I'm the most undone Woman!

Wit. A Blessing on her for a dear dissembling Jilt—Death and the Devil, will it never cease?

Sir Pat. A Death-watch! ah, 'tis so, I've often heard of these things—methinks it sounds as if 'twere under the Bed.— [Offers to look, she holds him.

L. Fan. You think so, Sir, but that 'tis about the Bed is my Grief; it therefore threatens you: Oh wretched Woman!

Sir Pat. Ay, ay, I'm too happy in a Wife to live long: Well, I will settle my House at Hogsdowne, with the Land about it, which is 500l. a Year upon thee, live or die,—do not grieve.— [Lays himself down.

L. Fan. Oh, I never had more Cause; come try to sleep, your Fate may be diverted—whilst I'll to Prayers for your dear Health.— [Covers him, draws the Curtains.] I have almost run out all my stock of Hypocrisy, and that hated Art now fails me.—Oh all ye Powers that favour distrest Lovers, assist us now, and I'll provide against your future Malice. [She makes Signs to Wittmore, he peeps.

Wit. I'm impatient of Freedom, yet so much Happiness as I but now injoy'd without this part of Suffering had made me too blest.—Death and Damnation! what curst luck have I?

[Makes Signs to her to open the Door: whilst he creeps softly from under the Bed to the Table, by which going to raise himself, he pulls down all the Dressing-things: at the same instant Sir Patient leaps from the Bed, and she returns from the Door, and sits on Wittmore's Back as he lies on his Hands and Knees, and makes as if she swooned.

Sir Pat. What's the matter? what's the matter? has Satan broke his everlasting Chain, and got loose abroad to plague poor Mortals? hah—what's the matter? [Runs to his Lady.

L. Fan. Oh, help, I die—I faint—run down, and call for help.

Sir Pat. My Lady dying? oh, she's gone, she faints,—what ho, who waits? [Cries and bauls.

L. Fan. Oh, go down and bring me help, the Door is lock'd,—they cannot hear ye,—oh—I go—I die.— [He opens the Door, and calls help, help.

Wit. Damn him! there's no escaping without I kill the Dog. [From under her, peeping.

L. Fan. Lie still, or we are undone.—

Sir Patient returns with Maundy.

Maun. Hah, discover'd!

Sir Pat. Help, help, my Lady dies.

Maun. Oh, I perceive how'tis.—Alas, she's dead, quite gone; oh, rub her Temples, Sir.

Sir Pat. Oh, I'm undone then,— [Weeps.] Oh my Dear, my virtuous Lady!

L. Fan. Oh, where's my Husband, my dearest Husband—Oh, bring him near me.

Sir Pat. I'm here, my excellent Lady.— [She takes him about the Neck, and raises her self up, gives Wittmore a little kick behind.

Wit. Oh the dear lovely Hypocrite, was ever Man so near discovery?— [Goes out.

Sir Pat. Oh, how hard she presses my Head to her Bosom!

Maun. Ah, that grasping hard, Sir, is a very bad Sign.

Sir Pat. How does my good, my dearest Lady Fancy?

L. Fan. Something better now, give me more Air,—that dismal Larum Death-watch had almost kill'd me.

Sir Pat. Ah precious Creature, how she afflicts her self for me.—Come, let's walk into the Dining-room, 'tis more airy, from thence into my Study, and make thy self Mistress of that Fortune I have design'd thee, thou best of Women.

[Exeunt, leading her.



ACT V.

SCENE I. A Room in Sir Patient Fancy's House. A Table, and six Chairs.

Enter Isabella reading a Letter, Betty tricking her.

Isab. How came you by this Letter?

Bet. Miss Fanny receiv'd it by a String from his Window, by which he took up that you writ to him this Morning.

Isab. What means this nicety? forbear I say.— [Puts Betty from her.

Bet. You cannot be too fine upon your Wedding-day.

Isab. Thou art mistaken, leave me,—whatever he says here to satisfy my Jealousy, I am confirm'd that he was false: yet this assurance to free me from this intended Marriage, makes me resolve to pardon him, however guilty.—

Enter Wittmore.

How now! what means this Insolence? How dare you, having so lately made your guilty approaches, venture again into my presence?

Wit. Why? Is there any danger, but what's so visible in those fair Eyes?

Isab. And there may lie enough, Sir, when they're angry. By what Authority do you make this saucy Visit?

Wit. That of a Husband, Madam; I come to congratulate the mighty Joy this Day will bring you.

Isab. Thou darst not marry me, there will be danger in't.

Wit. Why, sure you do not carry Death in your Embraces, I find no Terror in that lovely Shape, no Daggers in that pretty scornful Look; that Breath that utters so much Anger now, last night was sweet as new-blown Roses are,—and spoke such Words, so tender and so kind.

Isab. And canst thou think they were address'd to thee?

Wit. No, nor cou'd the Shade of Night hide the Confusion which disorder'd you, at the discovery that I was not he, the blessed he you look'd for.

Isab. Leave me, thou hated Object of my Soul.

Wit. This will not serve your turn, for I must marry you.

Isab. Then thou art a Fool, and drawest thy Ruin on; why, I will hate thee,—hate thee most extremely.

Wit. That will not anger me.

Isab. Why, I will never let thee touch me, nor kiss my Hand, nor come into my sight.

Wit. Are there no other Women kind, fair, and to be purchas'd? he cannot starve for Beauty in this Age, that has a stock to buy.

Isab. Why, I will cuckold thee, look to't, I will most damnably.

Wit. So wou'd you, had you lov'd me, in a year or two; therefore like a kind civil Husband, I've made provision for you, a Friend, and one I dare trust my Honour with,—'tis Mr. Knowell, Madam.

Isab. Lodwick! What Devil brought that Name to his knowledge?—Canst thou know him, and yet dare hope to marry me?

Wit. We have agreed it, and on these conditions.

Isab. Thou basely injurest him, he cannot do a Deed he ought to blush for: Lodwick do this! Oh, do not credit it,—prithee be just and kind for thy own Honour's sake; be quickly so, the hasty minutes fly, and will anon make up the fatal Hour that will undo me.

Wit. 'Tis true, within an hour you must submit to Hymen, there's no avoiding it.

Isab. Nay, then be gone, my poor submissive Prayers, and all that dull Obedience Custom has made us Slaves to.—Do sacrifice me, lead me to the Altar, and see if all the holy mystick Words can conjure from me the consenting Syllable: No, I will not add one word to make the Charm complete, but stand as silent in the inchanting Circle, as if the Priests were raising Devils there.

Enter Lodwick.

Lod. Enough, enough, my charming Isabella, I am confirm'd.

Isab. Lodwick! what good Angel conducted thee hither?

Lod. E'en honest Charles Wittmore here, thy Friend and mine, no Bug-bear Lover he.

Isab. Wittmore! that Friend I've often heard thee name? Now some kind mischief on him, he has so frighted me, I scarce can bring my Sense to so much order, to thank him that he loves me not.

Lod. Thou shalt defer that payment to more leisure; we're Men of business now. My Mother, knowing of a Consultation of Physicians which your Father has this day appointed to meet at his House, has bribed Monsieur Turboone his French Doctor in Pension, to admit of a Doctor or two of her recommending, who shall amuse him with discourse till we get ourselves married; and to make it the more ridiculous, I will release Sir Credulous from the Basket, I saw it in the Hall as I came through, we shall have need of the Fool. [Exit Wittmore.

Enter Wittmore, pulling in the Basket.

Wit. 'Twill do well.

Lod. Sir Credulous, how is't, Man? [Opens the Basket.

Sir Cred. What, am I not at the Carrier's yet?—Oh Lodwick, thy Hand, I'm almost poison'd—This Basket wants airing extremely, it smells like an old Lady's Wedding Gown of my acquaintance.—But what's the danger past, Man?

Lod. No, but there's a necessity of your being for some time disguis'd to act a Physician.

Sir Cred. How! a Physician! that I can easily do, for I understand Simples.

Lod. That's not material, so you can but banter well, be very grave, and put on a starch'd Countenance.

Sir Cred. Banter! what's that, Man?

Lod. Why, Sir, talking very much, and meaning just nothing; be full of Words without any connection, sense or conclusion. Come in with me, and I'll instruct you farther.

Sir Cred. Pshaw, is that all? say no more on't, I'll do't, let me alone for Bantering—But this same damn'd Rival—

Lod. He's now watching for you without and means to souse upon you; but trust to me for your security; come away, I have your Habit ready. [Goes out.] —This day shall make thee mine, dear Isabella.—

[Exit Lodwick and Wittmore.

Enter Sir Patient, Leander, and Roger.

Sir Pat. Marry Lucretia! is there no Woman in the City fit for you, but the Daughter of the most notorious fantastical Lady within the Walls?

Lean. Yet that fantastical Lady you thought fit for a Wife for me, Sir.

Sir Pat. Yes, Sir, Foppery with Money had been something; but a poor Fop, hang't, 'tis abominable.

Lean. Pray hear me, Sir.

Sir Pat. Sirrah, Sirrah, you're a Jackanapes, ingenuously you are, Sir: marry Lucretia, quoth he?

Lean. If it were so, Sir, where's her fault?

Sir Pat. Why, Mr. Coxcomb, all over. Did I with so much care endeavour to marry thee to the Mother, only to give thee opportunity with Lucretia?

Enter Lady Knowell.

Lean. This Anger shews your great Concern for me.

Sir Pat. For my Name I am, but 'twere no matter if thou wert hang'd, and thou deservest it for thy leud cavaliering Opinion.—They say thou art a Papist too, or at least a Church-of-England Man, and I profess there's not a Pin to chuse.—Marry Lucretia!

L. Kno. Were I querimonious, I shou'd resent the Affront this Balatroon has offer'd me.

Isab. Dear Madam, for my sake do not anger him now. [Aside to her.

L. Kno. Upon my Honour, you are very free with my Daughter, Sir.

Sir Pat. How! she here! now for a Peal from her eternal Clapper; I had rather be confin'd to an Iron-mill.

L. Kno. Sure Lucretia merits a Husband of as much worth as your Nephew, Sir.

Sir Pat. A better, Madam, for he's the leudest Hector in the Town; he has all the Vices of Youth, Whoring, Swearing, Drinking, Damning, Fighting,—and a thousand more, numberless and nameless.

L. Kno. Time, Sir, may make him more abstemious.

Sir Pat. Oh, never, Madam! 'tis in's Nature, he was born with it, he's given over to Reprobation, 'tis bred i'th' bone,—he's lost.

Lean. This is the first good Office that ever he did me.

L. Kno. What think you, Sir, if in defiance of your Inurbanity, I take him with all these Faults my self?

Sir Pat. How, Madam!

L. Kno. Without more Ambages, Sir, I have consider'd your former Desires, and have consented to marry him, notwithstanding your Exprobrations.

Sir Pat. May I believe this, Madam? and has your Ladyship that Goodness?—and hast thou, my Boy, so much Wit? Why, this is something now.—Well, he was ever the best and sweetest-natur'd Youth.—Why, what a notable Wag's this? and is it true, my Boy, hah?

Lean. Yes, Sir, I had told you so before, had you permitted me to speak.

Sir Pat. Well, Madam, he is only fit for your excellent Ladyship, he is the prettiest civillest Lad.—Well, go thy ways; I shall never see the like of thee; no—Ingenuously, the Boy's made for ever; two thousand Pounds a Year, besides Money, Plate and Jewels; made for ever.—Well, Madam, the satisfaction I take in this Alliance, has made me resolve to give him immediately my Writings of all my Land in Berkshire, five hundred Pounds a year, Madam: and I wou'd have you married this Morning with my Daughter, so one Dinner and one Rejoicing will serve both.

L. Kno. That, Sir, we have already agreed upon.

Sir Pat. Well, I'll fetch the Writings. Come, Isabella, I'll not trust you out of my sight to day.

[Ex. Sir Pat. and Isab.

Lean. Well then, Madam, you are resolv'd upon this business of Matrimony.

L. Kno. Was it not concluded between us, Sir, this Morning? and at the near approach do you begin to fear?

Lean. Nothing, Madam, since I'm convinc'd of your Goodness.

L. Kno. You flatter, Sir, this is mere Adulation.

Lean. No, I am that wild Extravagant my Uncle render'd me, and cannot live confin'd.

L. Kno. To one Woman you mean? I shall not stand with you for a Mistress or two; I hate a dull morose unfashionable Blockhead to my Husband; nor shall I be the first example of a suffering Wife, Sir. Women were created poor obedient things.

Lean. And can you be content to spare me five or six nights in a week?

L. Kno. Oh, you're too reasonable.

Lean. And for the rest, if I get drunk, perhaps I'll give to you: yet in my drink I'm damn'd ill-natur'd too, and may neglect my Duty; perhaps shall be so wicked, to call you cunning, deceitful, jilting, base, and swear you have undone me, swear you have ravish'd from my faithful Heart all that cou'd make it bless'd or happy.

Enter Lucretia weeping.

L. Kno. How now, Lucretia!

Lucr. Oh Madam, give me leave to kneel before, and tell you, if you pursue the Cruelty I hear you're going to commit, I am the most lost, most wretched Maid that breathes; we two have plighted Faiths, and shou'd you marry him, 'twere so to sin as Heaven would never pardon.

L. Kno. Rise, Fool.

Lucr. Never till you have given me back Leander, or leave to live no more.—Pray kill me, Madam; and the same Flowers that deck your nuptial Bed, Shall serve to strow my Herse, when I shall lie A dead cold Witness of your Tyranny.

L. Kno. Rise; I still design'd him yours.—I saw with pleasure, Sir, your reclination from my Addresses.—I have proved both your Passions, and 'twere unkind not to crown 'em with the due Praemium of each others Merits. [Gives her to Lean.

Lean. Can Heaven and you agree to be so bountiful?

L. Kno. Be not amaz'd at this turn, Rotat omne fatum.—But no more,—keep still that mask of Love we first put on, till you have gain'd the Writings: for I have no Joy beyond cheating that filthy Uncle of thine.—Lucretia, wipe your Eyes, and prepare for Hymen, the Hour draws near. Thalessio, Thalessio, as the Romans cry'd.

Lucr. May you still be admir'd as you deserve!

Enter Sir Patient with Writings, and Isabella.

Sir Pat. How, Madam Lucretia, and in Tears?

L. Kno. A little disgusted, Sir, with her Father-in-law, Sir.

Sir Pat. Oh, is that all? hold up thy Head, Sweet-heart, thy turn's next.—Here, Madam, I surrender my Title, with these Writings, and with 'em my Joy, my Life, my Darling, my Leander.—Now let's away, where's Mr. Fainlove?

Isab. He's but stept into Cheapside, to fit the Ring, Sir, and will be here immediately.

Sir Pat. I have Business anon about eleven of the Clock, a Consultation of Physicians, to confer about this Carcase of mine.

Lean. Physicians, Sir, what to do?

Sir Pat. To do! why, to take their advice, Sir, and to follow it.

Lean. For what, I beseech you, Sir?

Sir Pat. Why, Sir, for my Health.

Lean. I believe you are not sick, Sir, unless they make you so.

Sir Pat. They make me so!—Do you hear him, Madam—Am not I sick, Sir? not I, Sir Patient Fancy, sick?

L. Kno. He'll destroy my Design.—How, Mr. Fancy, not Sir Patient sick? or must he be incinerated before you'll credit it?

Sir Pat. Ay, Madam, I want but dying to undeceive him, and yet I am not sick!

Lean. Sir, I love your Life, and wou'd not have you die with Fancy and Conceit.—

Sir Pat. Fancy and Conceit! do but observe him, Madam,—what do you mean, Sir, by Fancy and Conceit?

L. Kno. He'll ruin all;—why, Sir,—he means—

Sir Pat. Nay, let him alone, let him alone, (with your Ladyship's pardon)—Come, Sir,—Fancy and Conceit, I take it, was the Question in debate.—

Lean. I cannot prove this to you, Sir, by force of Argument, but by Demonstration I will, if you will banish all your cozening Quacks, and take my wholesome Advice.

Sir Pat. Do but hear him, Madam: not prove it!

L. Kno. Sir, he means nothing.—Not sick! alas, Sir, you're very sick.

Sir Pat. Ay, ay, your Ladyship is a Lady of profound Knowledge.—Why, have I not had the advice of all the Doctors in England, and have I not been in continual Physick this twenty Years:—and yet I am not sick! Ask my dear Lady, Sir, how sick I am, she can inform you. [L. Kno. goes and talks to Isab.

Lean. She does her endeavour, Sir, to keep up the Humour.

Sir Pat. How, Sir?

Lean. She wishes you dead, Sir.

Sir Pat. What said the Rascal? wishes me dead!

Lean. Sir, she hates you.

Sir Pat. How! hate me! what, my Lady hate me?

Lean. She abuses your Love, plays tricks with ye, and cheats ye, Sir.

Sir Pat. Was ever so profane a Wretch! What, you will not prove this neither?

Lean. Yes, by demonstration too.

Sir Pat. Why, thou saucy Varlet, Sirrah, Sirrah, thank my Lady here I do not cudgel thee.—Well, I will settle the rest of my Estate upon her to morrow, I will, Sir; and thank God you have what you have, Sir, make much on't.

Lean. Pardon me, Sir, 'tis not my single Opinion, but the whole City takes notice on't: that I tell it you, Sir, is the Effect of my Duty, not Interest. Pray give me leave to prove this to you, Sir.

Sir Pat. What, you are at your Demonstration again?—come—let's hear.

Lean. Why, Sir, give her frequent opportunities,—and then surprize her;—or, by pretending to settle all upon her,—give her your Power, and see if she do not turn you out of Doors;—or—by feigning you are sick to death—or indeed by dying.

Sir Pat. I thank you, Sir,—this indeed is Demonstration, I take it. [Pulls off his Hat.

Lean. I mean but feigning, Sir; and be a witness your self of her Sorrow, or Contempt.

Sir Pat. [Pauses.] Hah—hum,—why, ingenuously, this may be a very pretty Project.—Well, Sir, suppose I follow your advice?—nay, I profess I will do so, not to try her Faith, but to have the pleasure to hear her conjugal Lamentations, feel her Tears bedew my Face, and her sweet Mouth kissing my Cheeks a thousand times; verily a wonderful Comfort.—And then, Sir, what becomes of your Demonstration?—

Enter Wittmore with the Ring.

Oh—Mr. Fainlove, come, come, you're tardy, let's away to Church.

Enter Roger.

Rog. Sir, here is Doctor Turboon, and those other Doctors your Worship expected.

Enter Lady Fancy and Bartholomew.

Sir Pat. The Doctors already!—well, bring 'em up; come, Madam, we have waited for your Ladyship,—bring up the Doctors, Roger. [Exit Roger.

L. Fan. Wittmore, I have now brought that design to a happy Conclusion, for which I married this formal Ass; I'll tell thee more anon,—we are observ'd.

L. Kno. Oh, Lodwick's come!

Enter Lodwick, Monsieur Turboon, Fat Doctor, Amsterdam, Leyden, Sir Credulous.

Sir Pat. Doctor Turboon, your Servant, I expected you not this two hours.

Turb. Nor had ee com, Sir, bot for dese wordy Gentlemen, whos Affairs wode not permit dem to come at your hoar.

Sir Pat. Are they English pray?

Turb. Dis is, Sir,— [Pointing to Lod.] an admirable Physician, and a rare Astrologer.—Dis speaks good English, bot a Collender born. [Points to Sir Cred.

Sir Cred. What a pox, does the Fellow call me a Cullender?

Lod. He means a High-Dutch-man of the Town of Collen, Sir.

Sir Pat. Sir, I have heard of your Fame.—Doctor, pray entertain these Gentlemen till my return, I'll be with you presently.

Lod. Sir, I hope you go not forth to day. [Gazing on his Face.

Sir Pat. Not far, Sir.

Lod. There is a certain Star has rul'd this two days, Sir, of a very malignant Influence to Persons of your Complection and Constitution.—Let me see—within this two hours and six minutes, its Malice will be spent, till then it will be fatal.

Sir Pat. Hum, reign'd this two Days?—I profess and things have gone very cross with me this two Days,—a notable Man this.

L. Kno. Oh, a very profound Astrologer, Sir, upon my Honour, I know him.

Sir Pat. But this is an Affair of that Importance, Sir,—

Lod. If it be more than Health or Life, I beg your pardon, Sir.

Sir Pat. Nay, no Offence, Sir, I beseech you, I'll stay, Sir.

L. Kno. How! Sir Patient not see us married?

Sir Pat. You shall excuse me, Madam.

L. Fan. This was lucky; Oh Madam, wou'd you have my Dear venture out, when a malignant Star reigns! not for the World.

Sir Pat. No, I'll not stir; had it been any Star but a malignant Star, I had waited on your Ladyship: but these malignant Stars are very pernicious Stars. Nephew, take my Lady Knowell, Mr. Fainlove my Daughter; and Bartholomew do you conduct my Lady, the Parson stays for you, and the Coaches are at the Door.

[Exeunt L. Kno. Lean. Wit. and Isab. L. Fancy and Bartholomew.

Enter Boy.

Boy. Sir, my Lady has sent for you. [Exit.

Lod. Sir, I'll be with you presently; Sir Credulous, be sure you lug him by the Ears with any sort of Stuff till my return. I'll send you a Friend to keep you in countenance.

Sir Pat. Please you to sit, Gentlemen? [Exit Lod.

Amst. Please you, Sir. [To Sir Cred. who bows and runs back.

Sir Cred. Oh Lord, sweet Sir, I hope you do not take me—Nay, I beseech you, Noble Sir—Reverend Sir. [Turning from one to t'other.

Leyd. By no means, Sir, a Stranger.

Sir Cred. I beseech you—Scavantissimi Doctores,—incomparable Sir,—and you—or you.

Fat D. In troth, Sir, these Compliments are needless, I am something corpulent, and love my ease. [Sits.

Sir Cred. Generous Sir, you say well; therefore Conlicentia, as the Grecians have it. [Sits.

Amst. —Brother.—

Leyd. Nay, good Brother,—Sir Patient—

Sir Pat. Ingenuously, not before you, Mr. Doctor.

Leyd. Excuse me, Sir, an Alderman, and a Knight.—

Sir Pat. Both below the least of the learned Society.

Leyd. Since you will have it so. [All sit and cry hum,—and look gravely.

Sir Cred. Hum—hum, most Worthy, and most Renowned—Medicinae Professores, qui hic assemblati estis, & vos altri Messiores; I am now going to make a Motion for the publick Good of us all, but will do nothing without your Doctorships Approbation.

Sir Pat. Judiciously concluded.

Sir Cred. The question then is, Reverentissimi Doctores, whether—for mark me, I come to the matter in hand, hating long Circumstances of Words; there being no necessity, as our learned Brother Rabelais observes in that most notorious Treatise of his call'd Garagantua; there is, says he, no necessity of going over the Hedge when the Path lies fair before ye: therefore, as I said before, I now say again, coming to my Question; for as that admirable Welch Divine says, in that so famous Sermon of his, upon her Creat Cranfather Hadam and her Creat Cranmother Heeve concerning the Happell,—and her will, warrant her, her will keep her to her Text still,—so I stick close to my question, which is, Illustrissimi Doctores, whether it be not necessary to the Affair in hand—to take—a Bottle; and if your Doctorships are of my opinion—hold up your Thumbs. [All hold up their Thumbs. —Look, Sir, you observe the Votes of the learned Cabalists.

Sir Pat. Which shall be put in Act forthwith—I like this Man well, he does nothing without mature Deliberation.

Enter Brunswick.

Brun. By your leaves, Gentlemen—Sir Credulous— [Whispers.

Sir Cred. Oh—'tis Lodwick's Friend, the Rascal's dress'd like Vanderbergen in the Strand:—Sir Patient, pray know this glorious Doctor, Sir.

Sir Pat. A Doctor, Sir?

Sir Cred. A Doctor, Sir! yes, and as eloquent a Doctor, Sir, as ever set Bill to Post: why, 'tis—the incomparable—Brunswick, High-Dutch Doctor.

Sir Pat. You're welcome, Sir,—Pray sit; ah.—Well, Sir, you are come to visit a very crazy sickly Person, Sir.

Brun. Pray let me feel your Pulse, Sir;—what think you, Gentlemen, is he not very far gone?— [Feels his Pulse, they all feel.

Sir Cred. Ah, far, far.—Pray, Sir, have you not a certain wambling Pain in your Stomach, Sir, as it were, Sir, a—a pain, Sir.

Sir Pat. Oh, very great, Sir, especially in a Morning fasting.

Sir Cred. I knew it by your stinking Breath, Sir—and are you not troubled with a Pain in your Head, Sir?

Sir Pat. In my Head, Sir?

Sir Cred. I mean a—kind of a—Pain,—a kind of a Vertigo, as the Latins call it; and a Whirligigoustiphon, as the Greeks have it, which signifies in English, Sir, a Dizzie-swimming kind—of a do ye see—a thing—that—a—you understand me.

Sir Pat. Oh, intolerable, intolerable!—why, this is a rare Man!

Fat D. Your Reason, Sir, for that? [To Sir Cred.

Sir Cred. My Reason, Sir? why, my Reason, Sir, is this, Haly the Moore, and Rabbi Isaac, and some thousands more of learned Dutchmen, observe your dull Wall Eye and your Whir—Whirligigoustiphon, to be inseparable.

Brun. A most learned Reason!

Fat D. Oh, Sir, inseparable.

Sir Cred. And have you not a kind of a—something—do ye mark me, when you make Water, a kind of a stopping—and—a—do ye conceive me, I have forgot the English Term, Sir, but in Latin 'tis a Stronggullionibus.

Sir Pat. Oh, Sir, most extremely, 'tis that which makes me desperate, Sir.

Sir Cred. Your ugly Face is an infallible Sign; your Dysurie, as the Arabicks call it, and your ill-favour'd Countenance, are constant Relatives.

All. Constant, constant.

Sir Cred. Pray how do you eat, Sir?

Sir Pat. Ah, Sir, there's my distraction. Alas, Sir, I have the weakest Stomach—I do not make above four Meals a-day, and then indeed I eat heartily—but alas, what's that to eating to live?—nothing, Sir, nothing.—

Sir Cred. Poor Heart, I pity him.

Sir Pat. And between Meals, good Wine, Sweet-meats, Caudles,—Cordials and Mirabilises, to keep up my fainting Spirits.

Sir Cred. A Pox of his Aldermanship: an the whole Bench were such notable Swingers, 'twould famish the City sooner than a Siege.

Amst. Brothers, what do you think of this Man?

Leyd. Think, Sir? I think his Case is desperate.

Sir Cred. Shaw, Sir, we shall soon rectify the quiblets and quillities of his Blood, if he observes our Directions and Diet, which is to eat but once in four or five days.

Sir Pat. How, Sir, eat but once in four or five days? such a Diet, Sir, would kill me; alas, Sir, kill me.

Sir Cred. Oh no, Sir, no; for look ye, Sir, the Case is thus, do you mind me—so that the Business lying so obvious, do ye see, there is a certain Method, do ye mark me—in a—Now, Sir, when a Man goes about to alter the course of Nature,—the case is very plain, you may as well arrest the Chariot of the Sun, or alter the Eclipses of the Moon; for, Sir, this being of another Nature, the Nature of it is to be unnatural, you conceive me, Sir?—therefore we must crave your absence, Sir, for a few Minutes, till we have debated this great Affair.

Sir Pat. With all my heart, Sir, since my Case is so desperate, a few hours were not too much. [Ex. Sir Pat.