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.
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_?
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.
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.
_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?