Sir _Pat._ Oh blest Deliverance!--what a profane Wretch is here, and what a leud World we live in--Oh _London_, _London_, how thou aboundest in Iniquity! thy young Men are debauch’d, thy Virgins defloured, and thy Matrons all turn’d Bauds! My Lady _Fancy_, this is not Company for you, I take it, let us fly from this vexation of Spirit, on the never-failing Wings of Discretion.-- [Going to lead Lady _Fancy_ off,--the Lady _Knowell_ speaking to _Isabella_ all this while. L. _Kno._ How! marry thee to such a Fop, say’st thou? Oh egregious!--as thou lovest _Lodwick_, let him not know his Name, it will be dangerous, let me alone to evade it. _Isab._ I know his fiery Temper too well to trust him with the secret. L. _Kno._ Hark ye, Sir, and do you intend to do this horrible thing?-- Sir _Pat._ What thing, my Lady _Knowell_? L. _Kno._ Why, to marry your Daughter, Sir. Sir _Pat._ Yes, Madam. L. _Kno._ To a beastly Town Fool? _Monstrum horrendum!_ Sir _Pat._ To any Fool, except a Fool of your Race, of your Generation.-- L. _Kno._ How! a Fool of my Race, my Generation! I know thou meanest my Son, thou contumelious Knight, who, let me tell thee, shall marry thy Daughter _invito te_, that is, (to inform thy obtuse Understanding) in spite of thee; yes, shall marry her, though she inherits nothing but thy dull Enthusiasms, which had she been legitimate she had been possest with. Sir _Pat._ Oh abominable! you had best say she is none of my Daughter, and that I was a Cuckold.-- L. _Kno._ If I should, Sir, it would not amount to _Scandalum Magnatum_: I’ll tell thee more, thy whole Pedigree,--and yet for all this, _Lodwick_ shall marry your Daughter, and yet I’ll have none of your Nephew. Sir _Pat._ Shall he so, my Lady _Knowell_? I shall go near to out-trick your Ladyship, for all your politick Learning. ‘Tis past the Canonical Hour, as they call it, or I wou’d marry my Daughter instantly; I profess we ne’er had good days since these Canonical Fopperies came up again, mere Popish Tricks to give our Children time for Disobedience,--the next Justice wou’d ha’ serv’d turn, and have done the Business at any Hour: but Patience is a Virtue--_Roger_, go after Mr. _Fainlove_, and tell him I wou’d speak with him instantly. [Exit _Roger_. L. _Kno._ Come, come, Ladies, we lose fleeting time, upon my Honour, we do; for, Madam, as I said, I have brought the Fiddles, and design to sacrifice the intire Evening to your Ladyship’s Diversion. Sir _Cred._ Incomparable Lady, that was well thought on; Zoz, I long to be jigging. Sir _Pat._ Fiddles, good Lord! why, what am I come to?--Madam, I take it, Sir _Patient Fancy’s_ Lady is not a proper Person to make one at immodest Revellings, and profane Masqueradings. L. _Fan._ Why; ah, ‘tis very true, Sir, but we ought not to offend a Brother that is weak, and consequently, a Sister.