SCENE I. A Garden to Sir _Patient Fancy’s_ House. Enter Lady _Fancy_, _Wittmore_, and _Maundy_. _Wit._ Enough, my charming Mistress, you’ve set my Soul at Peace, and chas’d away those Fears and Doubts my Jealousy created there. _Maun._ Mr. _Wittmore’s_ satisfy’d of your Constancy, Madam; though had I been your Ladyship, I should have given him a more substantial Proof, which you might yet do, if you wou’d make handsome use of your time. _Wit._ _Maundy_ advises well; my dearest, let’s withdraw to yonder Covert Arbour, whose kind Shades will secure us a Happiness that Gods might envy. [Offers to lead her out. L. _Fan._ I dare not for the world, Sir _Patient_ is now asleep, and ’.is to those few Minutes we are oblig’d for this Enjoyment, which shou’d Love make us transgress, and he shou’d wake and surprize us, we are undone for ever: no, let us employ this little time we have in consulting how we may be often happy, and securely so: Oh, how I languish for the dear opportunity! _Wit._ And cou’d you guess what Torments I have suffer’d in these few fatal Months that have divided us, thou wou’dst pity me. L. _Fan._ --But to our Business; for though I am yet unsuspected by my Husband, I am eternally plagu’d with his Company; he’s so fond of me, he scarce gives me time to write to thee, he waits on me from room to room, hands me in the Garden, shoulders me in the Balcony, nay, does the office of my Women, dresses and undresses me, and does so smirk at his handywork: In fine, dear _Wittmore_, I am impatient till I can have less of his Company, and more of thine. _Wit._ Does he never go out of Town? L. _Fan._ Never without me. _Wit._ Nor to Chuch? L. _Fan._ To a Meeting-house you mean, and then too carries me, and is as vainly proud of me as of his rebellious Opinion, for his Religion means nothing but that, and Contradiction; which I seem to like too, since ‘tis the best Cloke I can put on to cheat him with. _Wit._ Right, my fair Hypocrite. L. _Fan._ But, dear _Wittmore_, there’s nothing so comical as to hear me cant, and even cheat those Knaves, the Preachers themselves, that delude the ignorant Rabble. _Wit._ What Miracles cannot your Eyes and Tongue perform! L. _Fan._ Judge what a fine Life I lead the while, to be set up with an old formal doting sick Husband, and a Herd of snivelling grinning Hypocrites, that call themselves the teaching Saints; who under pretence of securing me to the number of their Flock, do so sneer upon me, pat my Breasts, and cry fie, fie upon this fashion of tempting Nakedness. [Through the Nose. _Wit._ Dear Creature, how cou’d we laugh at thy new way of living, had we but some Minutes allow’d us to enjoy that Pleasure alone. L. _Fan._ Think, dear _Wittmore_, think, _Maundy_ and I have thought over all our Devices to no purpose. _Wit._ Pox on’t, I’m the dullest dog at plotting, thinking, in the world; I should have made a damnable ill Town Poet: Has he quite left off going to the Change?