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 c.o.c.k 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.--d.a.m.n"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 d.a.m.n"d that first contriv"d a Watch.
Sir _Pat._ Hah, dost weep?--why dost weep? I say, what Noise is that?
what ringing? hah.--