_Patch._ Nor I, by the Trust you repose in me; do you think I wou'd let a Man come within these Doors, when you were absent? Sir _Jeal._ Ah _Patch_, she may be too cunning for thy Honesty; the very Scout that he had set to give Warning discover'd it to me--and threaten'd me with half a Dozen _Mirmidons_--But I think I maul'd the Villain. These Afflictions you draw upon me, Mistress! _Isab._ Pardon me, Sir, 'tis your own Ridiculous Humour draws you into these Vexations, and gives every Fool pretence to banter you. Sir _Jeal._ No, 'tis your Idle Conduct, your Coquetish Flurting into the Balcone--Oh with what Joy shall I resign thee into the Arms of Don _Diego Babinetto!_ _Isab._ And with what Industry shall I avoid him! (_Aside._ Sir _Jeal._ Certainly that Rogue had a Message from some body or other; but being baulk'd by my coming, popt that Sham upon me. Come along, ye Sots, let's see if we can find the Dog again. _Patch_, lock her up; D'ye hear? (_Exit with Servants._ _Patch._ Yes, Sir--ay, walk till your Heels ake, you'll find no Body, I promise you. _Isab._ Who cou'd that Scout be, which he talks of? _Patch._ Nay, I can't imagine, without it was _Whisper_. _Isab._ Well, dear _Patch_, let's employ all our Thoughts how to escape this horrid Don _Diego_, my very Heart sinks at his Terrible Name. _Patch._ Fear not, Madam, Don _Carlo_ shall be the Man, or I'll lose the Reputation of Contriving, and then what's a Chambermaid good for? _Isab._ Say'st thou so, my Girl: Then-- _Let Dad be Jealous, multiply his Cares, While Love instructs me to avoid the Snares; I'll, spight of all his _Spanish_ Caution, show How much for Love a _British_ Maid can do._ (Exit. SCENE _Sir _Francis Gripe_'s House._ _Sir _Francis_ and _Miranda_ meeting._ _Miran._ Well, _Gardee_, how did I perform my Dumb Scene? Sir _Fran._ To Admiration--Thou dear little Rogue, let me buss thee for it: Nay, adod, I will, _Chargee_, so muzle, and tuzle, and hug thee; I will, I faith, I will. (_Hugging and Kissing her._ _Miran._ Nay, _Gardee_, don't be so lavish; who wou'd Ride Post, when the Journey lasts for Life? Sir _Fran._ Ah wag, ah wag--I'll buss thee agen for that. _Miran._ Faugh! how he stinks of Tobacco! what a delicate Bedfellow I shou'd have! (_Aside._ Sir _Fran._ Oh I'm Transported! When, when, my Dear, wilt thou Convince the World of thy Happy Day? when shall we marry, ha? _Miran._ There's nothing wanting but your Consent, Sir _Francis_. Sir _Fran._ My Consent! what do's my Charmer mean? _Miran._ Nay, 'tis only a Whim: But I'll have every thing according to form--Therefore when you sign an Authentick Paper, drawn up by an able Lawyer, that I have your Leave to marry, the next Day makes me yours, _Gardee_. Sir _Fran._ Ha, ha, ha, a Whim indeed! why is it not Demonstration I give my Leave when I marry thee.