Sir _Pat._ To any Fool, except a Fool of your Race, of your Generation.--
L. _Kno._ How! a Fool of my Race, my Generation! I know thou meanest my Son, thou contumelious Knight, who, let me tell thee, shall marry thy Daughter _invito te_, that is, (to inform thy obtuse Understanding) in spite of thee; yes, shall marry her, though she inherits nothing but thy dull Enthusiasms, which had she been legitimate she had been possest with.
Sir _Pat._ Oh abominable! you had best say she is none of my Daughter, and that I was a Cuckold.--
L. _Kno._ If I should, Sir, it would not amount to _Scandalum Magnatum_: I'll tell thee more, thy whole Pedigree,--and yet for all this, _Lodwick_ shall marry your Daughter, and yet I'll have none of your Nephew.
Sir _Pat._ Shall he so, my Lady _Knowell_? I shall go near to out-trick your Ladyship, for all your politick Learning. 'Tis past the Canonical Hour, as they call it, or I wou'd marry my Daughter instantly; I profess we ne'er had good days since these Canonical Fopperies came up again, mere Popish Tricks to give our Children time for Disobedience,--the next Justice wou'd ha' serv'd turn, and have done the Business at any Hour: but Patience is a Virtue--_Roger_, go after Mr. _Fainlove_, and tell him I wou'd speak with him instantly.
[Exit _Roger_.
L. _Kno._ Come, come, Ladies, we lose fleeting time, upon my Honour, we do; for, Madam, as I said, I have brought the Fiddles, and design to sacrifice the intire Evening to your Ladyship's Diversion.
Sir _Cred._ Incomparable Lady, that was well thought on; Zoz, I long to be jigging.
Sir _Pat._ Fiddles, good Lord! why, what am I come to?--Madam, I take it, Sir _Patient Fancy's_ Lady is not a proper Person to make one at immodest Revellings, and profane Masqueradings.
L. _Fan._ Why; ah, 'tis very true, Sir, but we ought not to offend a Brother that is weak, and consequently, a Sister.
Sir _Pat._ An excellent Lady this, but she may be corrupted, ah, she may fall; I will therefore without delay, carry her from this wicked Town.
L. _Kno._ Come, come, Gentlemen, let's in; Mr. _Fancy_, you must be my Man;--Sir _Credulous_, come, and you, sweet Sir, come, Ladies,--_Nunc est saltandum_, &c.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II. Changes to a Chamber.
Enter Sir _Patient_ as before, Lady _Fancy_, _Wittmore_, _Maundy_, and _Roger_ with things.
Sir _Pat._ _Maundy_, fetch my Clothes, I'll dress me and out of Town instantly,--persuade me not.
[To _Wit._ _Roger_, is the Coach ready, _Roger_?
_Rog._ Yes, Sir, with four Horses.
L. _Fan._ Out of Town! Oh, I'm undone then, there will be no hopes of ever seeing _Wittmore_. [Aside.] --_Maundy_, oh, help me to contrive my stay, or I'm a dead Woman.--Sir, sure you cannot go and leave your Affairs in Town.
Sir _Pat._ Affairs! what Affairs?
L. _Fan._ Why, your Daughter's Marriage, Sir:--and--Sir,--not, Sir, but that I desire of all things in the World the Blessing of being alone with you, far from the Noise and leud Disorders of this filthy Town.
Sir _Pat._ Most excellent Woman! ah, thou art too good for sinful Man, and I will therefore remove thee from the Temptations of it.--_Maundy_, my Clothes--Mr. _Fainlove_, I will leave _Isabella_ with my Lady _Fidget_, my Sister, who shall to morrow see you married, to prevent farther Inconveniences.
L. _Fan._ What shall I do?
_Maun._ Madam, I have a Design, which considering his Spleen, must this time do our Business,--'tis-- [Whispers.
L. _Fan._ I like it well, about it instantly, hah-- [Ex. _Maundy_.
Alas, Sir, what ails your Face? good Heaven,--look, _Roger_.
Sir _Pat._ My Face! why, what ails my Face? hah!
L. _Fan._ See, Mr. _Fainlove_, oh, look on my Dear, is he not strangely alter'd?
_Wit._ Most wonderfully.
Sir _Pat._ Alter'd, hah--why, where, why, how alter'd?--hah, alter'd say you?
_Wit._ Lord, how wildly he stares!
Sir _Pat._ Hah, stare wildly!
_Rog._ Are you not very sick, Sir?
L. _Fan._ Sick! oh, Heavens forbid!--How does my dearest Love?
Sir _Pat._ Methinks I feel myself not well o'th' sudden--ah--a kind of shivering seizes all my Limbs,--and am I so much chang'd?
_Wit._ All over, Sir, as big again as you were.
L. _Fan._ Your Face is frightfully blown up, and your dear Eyes just starting from your Head; oh, I shall sound with the apprehension on't.
[Falls into _Wittmore's_ Arms.
Sir _Pat._ My Head and Eyes so big, say you: oh, I'm wondrous sick o'th'
sudden,--all over say you--oh, oh--Ay, I perceive it now, my Senses fail me too.
L. _Fan._ How, Sir, your Senses fail you?
_Wit._ That's a very bad sign, believe me.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, ay, for I can neither feel nor see this mighty growth you speak of.
[Falls into a Chair, with great signs of Disorder.
_Wit._ Alas, I'm sorry for that, Sir.
_Rog._ Sure, 'tis impossible, I'll run and fetch a Glass, Sir.
[Offers to go.
L. _Fan._ Oh, stay, I wou'd not for the world he should see what a Monster he is,--and is like to be before to morrow.
[Aside.
_Rog._ I'll fit him with a Glass,--I'll warrant ye, it shall advance our Design.
[Exit _Roger_.
Enter _Maundy_ with the Clothes, she starts.
_Maun._ Good Heaven, what ails you, Sir?
Sir _Pat._ Oh--oh--'tis so.