Chapter VI: 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 ’.is 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, Hymenæ_, 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, ’.wou’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 500_l._ 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.