_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.