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.--