L. _Fan._ Oh, he’s grown cautiously rich, and will venture none of his substantial Stock in transitory Traffick. _Wit._ Has he no mutinous Cabal, nor Coffee-houses, where he goes religiously to consult the Welfare of the Nation? L. _Fan._ His imagin’d Sickness has made this their Rendesvouz. _Wit._ When he goes to his blind Devotion, cannot you pretend to be sick? that may give us at least two or three opportunities to begin with. L. _Fan._ Oh! then I should be plagu’d with continual Physick and Extempore Prayer till I were sick indeed. _Wit._ Damn the humorous Coxcomb and all his Family, what shall we do? L. _Fan._ Not all, for he has a Daughter that has good Humour, Wit, and Beauty enough to save her,--stay--that has jogg’d a Thought, as the Learned say, which must jog on, till the motion have produc’d something worth my thinking.-- Enter _Roger_ running. _Maun._ Ad’s me, here’s danger near, our Scout comes in such haste. L. _Fan._ _Roger_, what’s the matter? _Rog._ My Master, Madam, is risen from sleep, and is come in to the Garden.--See, Madam, he’s here. L. _Fan._ What an unlucky Accident was this? _Wit._ What shall I do, ‘tis too late to obscure my self? L. _Fan._ He sees you already, through the Trees,--here--keep your distance, your Hat under your Arm; so, be very ceremonious, whilst I settle a demure Countenance.-- _Maun._ Well, there never came good of Lovers that were given to too much talking; had you been silently kind all this while, you had been willing to have parted by this time. Enter Sir _Patient_ in a Night-Gown, reading a Bill. Sir _Pat._ Hum,--Twelve Purges for this present _January_--as I take it, good Mr. Doctor, I took but Ten in all _December._--By this Rule I am sicker this Month, than I was the last.--And, good Master Apothecary, methinks your Prizes are somewhat too high: at this rate no body wou’d be sick.--Here, _Roger_, see it paid however,--Ha, hum. [Sees ‘em, and starts back.] What’s here, my Lady Wife entertaining a leud Fellow of the Town? a flaunting Cap and Feather Blade. L. _Fan._ Sir _Patient_ cannot now be spoken with. But, Sir, that which I was going just now to say to you, was, that it would be very convenient in my opinion to make your Addresses to _Isabella_,--’twill give us opportunities. [Aside.] We Ladies love no Imposition; this is Counsel my Husband perhaps will not like, but I would have all Women chuse their Man, as I have done,--my dear _Wittmore_. [Aside. Sir _Pat._ I profess ingenuously an excellent good Lady this of mine, though I do not like her Counsel to the young Man, who I perceive would be a Suitor to my Daughter _Isabella_. _Wit._ Madam, should I follow my inclinations, I should pay my Vows no where but there,--but I am inform’d Sir _Patient_ is a Man so positively resolv’d.-- L. _Fan._ That you should love his Wife. [Aside.