_Wild_. No, ‘twas with thee to make my last Effort against your scorn. [_Shews her the Writings_. And this I hop’d, when all my Vows and Love, When all my Languishments cou’d nought avail, Had made ye mine for ever. [_Aloud_. _Enter Sir_ Anthony, _pulling in Sir_ Tim. _and_ Diana. Sir _Anth_. Morrow, _Charles_; Morrow to your Ladyship: _Charles_, bid Sir _Timothy_ welcome; I met him luckily at the Door, and am resolv’d none of my Friends shall pass this joyful Day without giving thee Joy, _Charles_, and drinking my Lady’s Health. _Wild_. Hah, my Uncle here so early? [_Aside_. Sir _Tim_. What, has your Ladyship serv’d me so? How finely I had been mump’d now, if I had not took Heart of Grace, and shew’d your Ladyship Trick for Trick? for I have been this Morning about some such Business of Life too, Gentlemen: I am married to this fair Lady, the Daughter and Heiress of Sir _Nicholas Gett-all_, Knight and Alderman. _Wild_. Ha, married to _Diana_! How fickle is the Faith of common Women! [_Aside_. Sir _Tim_. Hum, who’s here, my Lord? What, I see your Lordship has found the way already to the fair Ladies; but I hope your Lordship will do my Wedding-dinner the Honour to grace it with your Presence. _Wild_. I shall not fail, Sir. A Pox upon him, he’ll discover all. [_Aside_. L. _Gal_. I must own, Sir Timothy, you have made the better Choice. Sir _Tim_. I cou’d not help my Destiny; Marriages are made in Heaven, you know. _Enter_ Charlot _weeping, and_ Clacket. _Charl_. Stand off, and let me loose as are my Griefs, Which can no more be bounded: Oh, let me face The perjur’d, false, forsworn! L. _Gal_. Fair Creature, who is’t that you seek with so much Sorrow? _Charl_. Thou, thou fatally fair Inchantress. [_Weeps_. _Wild. Charlot_! Nay, then I am discover’d. L. _Gal_. Alas, what wou’dst thou? _Charl_. That which I cannot have, thy faithless Husband. Be Judge, ye everlasting Powers of Love, Whether he more belongs to her or me. Sir _Anth_. How, my Nephew claim’d! Why, how now, Sirrah, have you been dabling here? Sir _Char_. By Heaven, I know her not.--Hark ye, Widow, this is some Trick of yours, and ‘twas well laid: and Gad, she’s so pretty, I cou’d find in my Heart to take her at her word. L. _Gal_. Vile Man, this will not pass your Falshood off. Sure, ‘tis some Art to make me jealous of him, To find how much I value him. Sir _Char_. Death, I’ll have the Forgery out;--Tell me, thou pretty weeping Hypocrite, who was it set thee on to lay a Claim to me? _Charl_. To you! Alas, who are you? for till this moment I never saw your Face. L. _Gal_. Mad as the Seas when all the Winds are raging. Sir _Tim_. Ay, ay, Madam, stark mad! Poor Soul--Neighbour, pray let her lie i’th’ dark, d’ye hear.