_Lod._ Hah, my dear Isabella here, and without a Spy! what a blessed opportunity must I be forc’d to lose, for there is just now arriv’d my Sister’s Lover, whom I am oblig’d to receive: but if you have a mind to laugh a little-- _Isab._ Laugh! why, are you turn’d Buffoon, Tumbler, or Presbyterian Preacher? _Lod._ No, but there’s a Creature below more ridiculous than either of these. _Lucr._ For love’s sake, what sort of Beast is that? _Lod._ Sir _Credulous Easy_, your new Lover just come to town Bag and Baggage, and I was going to acquaint my Mother with it. _Isab._ You’ll find her well employ’d with my Cousin _Leander_. _Lucr._ A happy opportunity to free him: but what shall I do now, Brother? _Lod._ Oh, let me alone to ruin him with my Mother: get you gone, I think I hear him coming, and this Apartment is appointed for him. _Lucr._ Prithee haste then, and free _Leander_, we’ll into the Garden. [Exeunt _Luc._ and _Isab._ A Chair and a Table. Enter Sir_ Credulous _in a riding habit. _Curry_ his Groom carrying a Portmantle._ _Lod._ Yes--’tis the Right Worshipful, I’ll to my Mother with the News. [Ex. _Lod._ Sir _Cred._ Come undo my Portmantle, and equip me, that I may look like some body before I see the Ladies--_Curry_, thou shalt e’en remove now, _Curry_, from Groom to Footman; for I’ll ne’er keep Horse more, no, nor Mare neither, since my poor _Gillian’s_ departed this Life. _Cur._ ‘Ds diggers, Sir, you have griev’d enough for your Mare in all Conscience; think of your Mistress now, Sir, and think of her no more. Sir _Cred._ Not think of her! I shall think of her whilst I live, poor Fool, that I shall, though I had forty Mistresses. _Cur._ Nay, to say truth, Sir, ‘twas a good-natur’d civil beast, and so she remain’d to her last gasp, for she cou’d never have left this World in a better time, as the saying is, so near her Journey’s End. Sir _Cred._ A civil Beast! Why, was it civilly done of her, thinkest thou, to die at _Branford_, when had she liv’d till to morrow, she had been converted into Money and have been in my Pocket? for now I am to marry and live in Town, I’ll sell off all my Pads; poor Fool, I think she e’en died for grief I wou’d have sold her. _Cur._ ‘Twas unlucky to refuse Parson _Cuffet’s_ Wife’s Money for her, Sir. Sir _Cred._ Ay, and to refuse her another kindness too, that shall be nameless which she offer’d me, and which wou’d have given me good luck in Horse-flesh too; Zoz, I was a modest fool, that’s truth on’t. _Cur._ Well, well, Sir, her time was come you must think, and we are all Mortal as the saying is. Sir _Cred._ Well, ‘twas the lovingst Tit:--but Grass and Hay, she’s gone--where be her Shoes, _Curry_? _Cur._ Here, Sir, her Skin went for good Ale at _Branford_. [Gives him the Shoes.