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.--