Chapter V: Act III: Scene I

_Scene draws off to a room in Sir _Patient Fancy’s_ house, and discovers Lady _Knowell_, _Isabella_, _Lucretia_, _Lodwick_, _Leander_, _Wittmore_, Sir _Credulous_, other Men and Women, as going to dance._

L. _Kno._ Come, one Dance more, and then I think we shall have sufficiently teaz’d the Alderman, and ‘twill be time to part.--Sir _Credulous_, where’s your Mistress?

Sir _Cred._ Within a Mile of an Oak, dear Madam, I’ll warrant you.--Well, I protest and vow, sweet Lady, you dance most nobly,--Why, you dance--like--like a--like a hasty Pudding, before _Jove_. [They dance some Antick, or Rustick Antick. _Lodwick_ speaking to _Isabella_.

SONG made by a Gentleman.

_Sitting by yonder River side,
_Parthenia_ thus to _Cloe_ cry’d,
Whilst from the fair Nymph’s Eyes apace
Another Stream o’er-flow’d her beauteous Face;
Ah happy Nymph, said she, that can
So little value that false Creature, Man._

_Oft the perfidious things will cry,
Alas they burn, they bleed, they die;
But if they’re absent half a Day,
Nay, let ‘em be but one poor Hour away,
No more they die, no more complain,
But like unconstant Wretches live again._

_Lod._ Well, have you consider’d of that Business yet, _Isabella_?

_Isab._ What business?

_Lod._ Of giving me admittance to night.

_Isab._ And may I trust your honesty?

_Lod._ Oh, doubt me not, my mother’s resolv’d it shall be a match between you and I, and that very consideration will secure thee: besides, who would first sully the Linen they mean to put on?

_Isab._ Away, here’s my Mother.

Enter Lady _Fancy_ and _Maundy_.

L. _Fan._ Madam, I beg your pardon for my absence, the effects of my Obedience, not Will; but Sir _Patient_ is taken very ill o’th’ sudden, and I must humbly intreat your Ladyship to retire, for Rest is only essential to his Recovery.

L. _Kno._ Congruously spoken, upon my Honour. Oh, the impudence of this Fellow your Ladyship’s Husband, to espouse so fair a Person only to make a Nurse of!

L. _Fan._ Alas, Madam!--

L. _Kno._ A Slave, a very Houshold Drudge.--Oh, faugh, come never grieve;--for, Madam, his Disease is nothing but Imagination, a Melancholy which arises from the Liver, Spleen, and Membrane call’d _Mesenterium_; the _Arabians_ name the Distemper _Myrathial_, and we here in _England_, _Hypochondriacal Melancholy_; I cou’d prescribe a most potent Remedy, but that I am loth to stir the Envy of the College.

L. _Fan._ Really, Madam, I believe--

L. _Kno._ But as you say, Madam, we’ll leave him to his Repose; pray do not grieve too much.

_Lod._ Death! wou’d I had the consoling her, ‘tis a charming Woman!

L. _Kno._ Mr. _Fancy_, your Hand; Madam, your most faithful Servant.--_Lucretia_, come, _Lucretia_.--Your Servant, Ladies and Gentleman.

L. _Fan._ A Devil on her, wou’d the Nimbleness of her Ladyship’s Tongue were in her Heels, she wou’d make more haste away: oh, I long for the blest minute.

_Lod._ _Isabella_, shall I find admittance anon?

_Isab._ On fair Conditions.

_Lod._ Trust my Generosity.--Madam, your Slave. [Ex.
[To L. _Fan._ gazing on her, goes out.

Sir _Cred._ Madam, I wou’d say something of your Charms and celestial Graces, but that all Praises are as far below you, as the Moon in her Opposition is below the Sun;--and so, luscious Lady, I am yours: Now for my Serenade--

[Ex. all but L. _Fan._ and _Maundy_.

L. _Fan._ _Maundy_, have you commanded all the Servants to bed?

_Maun._ Yes, Madam, not a Mouse shall stir, and I have made ready the Chamber next the Garden for your Ladyship.

L. _Fan._ Then there needs no more but that you wait for _Wittmore’s_ coming to the Garden-Gate, and take care no Lights be in the House for fear of Eyes.

_Maun._ Madam, I understand Lovers are best by dark, and shall be diligent: the Doctor has secur’d Sir _Patient_ by a sleeping Pill, and you are only to expect your approaching Happiness.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II. Lady _Knowell’s_ Chamber.

Enter Lady _Knowell_ and _Leander_.

L. _Kno._ _Leander_, raise your Soul above that little trifle _Lucretia_;--cannot you guess what better Fate attends you? fy, how dull you are! must I instruct you in plain right-down Terms? and tell you, that I propose you Master of my Fortune.--Now possibly you understand me.

Enter _Lucretia_, and peeps.

_Lean._ I wish I did not, Madam,
Unless I’d Virtue to deserve the Bounty;
I have a thousand Faults Dissimulation hides,
Inconstant, wild, debauch’d as Youth can make me.

_Lucr._ All that will not do your Business. [Aside.

L. _Kno._ Yet you wou’d have my Daughter take you with all these Faults;
they’re Virtues there, but to the name of Mother, they all turn
retrograde: I can endure a Man
As wild and as inconstant as she can;
I have a Fortune too that can support that Humour,
That of _Lucretia_ does depend on me,
And when I please is nothing;
I’m far from Age or Wrinkles, can be courted
By Men, as gay and youthful as a new Summer’s Morn,
Beauteous as the first Blossoms of the Spring,
Before the common Sun has kiss’d their Sweets away,
If with salacious Appetites I lov’d.

_Lean._ Faith, Madam, I cou’d wish--

L. _Kno._ That I were but Fifteen: but
If there be inequality in Years,
There is so too in Fortunes, that might add
A Lustre to my Eyes, Charms to my Person,
And make me fair as _Venus_, young as _Hebe_.

_Lean._ Madam, you have enough to engage any unconquer’d Heart; but ’.was, I thought, with your allowance I dispos’d of mine, and ‘tis a Heart that knows not how to change.

L. _Kno._ Then ‘tis a foolish unambitious Heart, unworthy of the Elevation it has not glorious Pride enough to aim at:--Farewel, Sir,--when you are wiser, you may find admittance. [Goes out.

_Lean._ Stay, Madam--

Enter _Lucretia_.

_Lucr._ For what? to hear your Penitence! Forgive me, Madam, I will be a
Villain, forget my Vows of Love, made to _Lucretia_.
And sacrifice both her, and those to Interest.
Oh, how I hate this whining and dissembling!

_Lean._ Do, triumph o’er a wretched Man, _Lucretia_.

_Lucr._ How! wretched in loving me so entirely, or that you cannot marry my Mother, and be Master of her mighty Fortune? ‘Tis a Temptation indeed so between Love and Interest, hang me if ever I saw so simple a Look as you put on when my Mother made love to you.

_Lean._ You may easily guess the Confusion of a Man in my Circumstances, to be languishing for the lov’d Daughter, and pursu’d by the hated Mother, whom if I refuse will ruin all my hopes of thee.

_Lucr._ Refuse her! I hope you have more Wit.

_Lean._ _Lucretia_, cou’d she make a Monarch of me, I cou’d not marry her.

_Lucr._ And you wou’d be so wise to tell her so?

_Lean._ I wou’d no more abuse her, than I cou’d love her.

_Lucr._ Yet that last must be done.

_Lean._ How!

_Lucr._ Dost believe me so wicked to think I mean in earnest? No, tell her a fine Story of Love and Liking, gaze on her, kiss her Hands, and sigh, commend her Face and Shape, swear she’s the Miracle of the Age for Wit, cry up her Learning, vow you were an Ass not to be sensible of her Perfections all this while; what a Coxcomb, to doat upon the Daughter when such Charms were so visible in the Mother? Faith, she’ll believe all this.

_Lean._ It may be so, but what will all this serve for?

_Lucr._ To give us time and opportunity to deceive her, or I’m mistaken.

_Lean._ I cannot teach my Tongue so much Deceit.

_Lucr._ You may be a Fool, and cry, Indeed forsooth I cannot love, for alas I have lost my Heart, and am unworthy of your proffer’d Blessings--do, and see her marry me in spite to this Fop _Easy_, this Knight of Nonsense: no, no, dissemble me handsomely and like a Gentleman, and then expect your good Fortune.

Enter _Antick_.

_Ant._ Madam, your Mother’s coming.

_Lucr._ Away then, she must not see us together, she thinks you gone.

_Lean._ But must I carry off no Comfort with me?

_Lucr._ Will you expose me to the incens’d Jealousy of a Parent? go, or I shall hate ye. [Thrusts him out.

SCENE III. A Garden.

Enter _Maundy_ by dark: Opens the Garden-Door.

_Maun._ Now am I return’d to my old Trade again, fetch and carry my Lady’s Lovers; I was afraid when she had been married, these Night-works wou’d have ended; but to say truth, there’s a Conscience to be used in all things, and there’s no reason she should languish with an old Man when a Young Man may be had.--The Door opens, he’s come.--

Enter _Lodwick_.

I see you’re a punctual Lover, Sir, pray follow me as softly as you can.

_Lod._ This is some one whom I perceive _Isabella_ has made the Confident to our Amours.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV. _Draws off, and discovers L. _Fancy_ in her Night-gown, in a Chamber as by the dark._

L. _Fan._ Oh, the agreeable Confusion of a Lover high with expectation of the approaching Bliss! What Tremblings between Joy and Fear possess me? All my whole Soul is taken up with _Wittmore_; I’ve no Ideas, no Thoughts but of _Wittmore_, and sure my Tongue can speak no other Language, but his Name.--Who’s there?

Enter _Maundy_ leading _Lodwick_.

_Maun._ Madam, ‘tis I, and your expected Lover here--I put him into your hands, and will wait your Commands in the next Chamber. [Exit _Maun._

_Lod._ Where are you, my dearest Creature?

L. _Fan._ Here--give me your Hand, I’ll lead you to those Joys we both so long have sigh’d for.

_Lod._ Hah! to Joys; sure she doth but dally with me. [Aside.

L. _Fan._ Why come you not on, my dear?

_Lod._ And yet, why this Admission, and i’ th’ dark too, if she design’d me none but virtuous Favours?--What damn’d Temptation’s this?

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 ’.was 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.