_Wit._ Why, sure you do not carry Death in your Embraces, I find no Terror in that lovely Shape, no Daggers in that pretty scornful Look; that Breath that utters so much Anger now, last night was sweet as new-blown Roses are,--and spoke such Words, so tender and so kind.
_Isab._ And canst thou think they were address'd to thee?
_Wit._ No, nor cou'd the Shade of Night hide the Confusion which disorder'd you, at the discovery that I was not he, the blessed he you look'd for.
_Isab._ Leave me, thou hated Object of my Soul.
_Wit._ This will not serve your turn, for I must marry you.
_Isab._ Then thou art a Fool, and drawest thy Ruin on; why, I will hate thee,--hate thee most extremely.
_Wit._ That will not anger me.
_Isab._ Why, I will never let thee touch me, nor kiss my Hand, nor come into my sight.
_Wit._ Are there no other Women kind, fair, and to be purchas'd? he cannot starve for Beauty in this Age, that has a stock to buy.
_Isab._ Why, I will cuckold thee, look to't, I will most damnably.
_Wit._ So wou'd you, had you lov'd me, in a year or two; therefore like a kind civil Husband, I've made provision for you, a Friend, and one I dare trust my Honour with,--'tis Mr. _Knowell_, Madam.
_Isab._ _Lodwick!_ What Devil brought that Name to his knowledge?--Canst thou know him, and yet dare hope to marry me?
_Wit._ We have agreed it, and on these conditions.
_Isab._ Thou basely injurest him, he cannot do a Deed he ought to blush for: _Lodwick_ do this! Oh, do not credit it,--prithee be just and kind for thy own Honour's sake; be quickly so, the hasty minutes fly, and will anon make up the fatal Hour that will undo me.
_Wit._ 'Tis true, within an hour you must submit to _Hymen_, there's no avoiding it.
_Isab._ Nay, then be gone, my poor submissive Prayers, and all that dull Obedience Custom has made us Slaves to.--Do sacrifice me, lead me to the Altar, and see if all the holy mystick Words can conjure from me the consenting Syllable: No, I will not add one word to make the Charm complete, but stand as silent in the inchanting Circle, as if the Priests were raising Devils there.
Enter _Lodwick_.
_Lod._ Enough, enough, my charming _Isabella_, I am confirm'd.
_Isab._ _Lodwick!_ what good Angel conducted thee hither?
_Lod._ E'en honest _Charles Wittmore_ here, thy Friend and mine, no Bug-bear Lover he.
_Isab._ _Wittmore!_ that Friend I've often heard thee name? Now some kind mischief on him, he has so frighted me, I scarce can bring my Sense to so much order, to thank him that he loves me not.
_Lod._ Thou shalt defer that payment to more leisure; we're Men of business now. My Mother, knowing of a Consultation of Physicians which your Father has this day appointed to meet at his House, has bribed Monsieur _Turboone_ his _French_ Doctor in Pension, to admit of a Doctor or two of her recommending, who shall amuse him with discourse till we get ourselves married; and to make it the more ridiculous, I will release Sir _Credulous_ from the Basket, I saw it in the Hall as I came through, we shall have need of the Fool.
[Exit _Wittmore_.
Enter _Wittmore_, pulling in the Basket.
_Wit._ 'Twill do well.
_Lod._ Sir _Credulous_, how is't, Man? [Opens the Basket.
Sir _Cred._ What, am I not at the Carrier's yet?--Oh _Lodwick_, thy Hand, I'm almost poison'd--This Basket wants airing extremely, it smells like an old Lady's Wedding Gown of my acquaintance.--But what's the danger past, Man?
_Lod._ No, but there's a necessity of your being for some time disguis'd to act a Physician.
Sir _Cred._ How! a Physician! that I can easily do, for I understand Simples.
_Lod._ That's not material, so you can but banter well, be very grave, and put on a starch'd Countenance.
Sir _Cred._ Banter! what's that, Man?
_Lod._ Why, Sir, talking very much, and meaning just nothing; be full of Words without any connection, sense or conclusion. Come in with me, and I'll instruct you farther.
Sir _Cred._ Pshaw, is that all? say no more on't, I'll do't, let me alone for Bantering--But this same damn'd Rival--
_Lod._ He's now watching for you without and means to souse upon you; but trust to me for your security; come away, I have your Habit ready.
[Goes out.] --This day shall make thee mine, dear _Isabella_.--
[Exit _Lodwick_ and _Wittmore_.
Enter Sir _Patient_, _Leander_, and _Roger_.
Sir _Pat._ Marry _Lucretia_! is there no Woman in the City fit for you, but the Daughter of the most notorious fantastical Lady within the Walls?
_Lean._ Yet that fantastical Lady you thought fit for a Wife for me, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Yes, Sir, Foppery with Money had been something; but a poor Fop, hang't, 'tis abominable.
_Lean._ Pray hear me, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Sirrah, Sirrah, you're a Jackanapes, ingenuously you are, Sir: marry _Lucretia_, quoth he?
_Lean._ If it were so, Sir, where's her fault?
Sir _Pat._ Why, Mr. Coxcomb, all over. Did I with so much care endeavour to marry thee to the Mother, only to give thee opportunity with _Lucretia_?
Enter Lady _Knowell_.
_Lean._ This Anger shews your great Concern for me.
Sir _Pat._ For my Name I am, but 'twere no matter if thou wert hang'd, and thou deservest it for thy leud cavaliering Opinion.--They say thou art a Papist too, or at least a Church-of-_England_ Man, and I profess there's not a Pin to chuse.--Marry _Lucretia_!
L. _Kno._ Were I querimonious, I shou'd resent the Affront this _Balatroon_ has offer'd me.
_Isab._ Dear Madam, for my sake do not anger him now. [Aside to her.
L. _Kno._ Upon my Honour, you are very free with my Daughter, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ How! she here! now for a Peal from her eternal Clapper; I had rather be confin'd to an Iron-mill.