Sir _Pat._ An excellent Lady this, but she may be corrupted, ah, she may fall; I will therefore without delay, carry her from this wicked Town. L. _Kno._ Come, come, Gentlemen, let’s in; Mr. _Fancy_, you must be my Man;--Sir _Credulous_, come, and you, sweet Sir, come, Ladies,--_Nunc est saltandum_, &c. [Exeunt. SCENE II. Changes to a Chamber. Enter Sir _Patient_ as before, Lady _Fancy_, _Wittmore_, _Maundy_, and _Roger_ with things. Sir _Pat._ _Maundy_, fetch my Clothes, I’ll dress me and out of Town instantly,--persuade me not. [To _Wit._ _Roger_, is the Coach ready, _Roger_? _Rog._ Yes, Sir, with four Horses. L. _Fan._ Out of Town! Oh, I’m undone then, there will be no hopes of ever seeing _Wittmore_. [Aside.] --_Maundy_, oh, help me to contrive my stay, or I’m a dead Woman.--Sir, sure you cannot go and leave your Affairs in Town. Sir _Pat._ Affairs! what Affairs? L. _Fan._ Why, your Daughter’s Marriage, Sir:--and--Sir,--not, Sir, but that I desire of all things in the World the Blessing of being alone with you, far from the Noise and leud Disorders of this filthy Town. Sir _Pat._ Most excellent Woman! ah, thou art too good for sinful Man, and I will therefore remove thee from the Temptations of it.--_Maundy_, my Clothes--Mr. _Fainlove_, I will leave _Isabella_ with my Lady _Fidget_, my Sister, who shall to morrow see you married, to prevent farther Inconveniences. L. _Fan._ What shall I do? _Maun._ Madam, I have a Design, which considering his Spleen, must this time do our Business,--’tis-- [Whispers. L. _Fan._ I like it well, about it instantly, hah-- [Ex. _Maundy_. Alas, Sir, what ails your Face? good Heaven,--look, _Roger_. Sir _Pat._ My Face! why, what ails my Face? hah! L. _Fan._ See, Mr. _Fainlove_, oh, look on my Dear, is he not strangely alter’d? _Wit._ Most wonderfully. Sir _Pat._ Alter’d, hah--why, where, why, how alter’d?--hah, alter’d say you? _Wit._ Lord, how wildly he stares! Sir _Pat._ Hah, stare wildly! _Rog._ Are you not very sick, Sir? L. _Fan._ Sick! oh, Heavens forbid!--How does my dearest Love? Sir _Pat._ Methinks I feel myself not well o’th’ sudden--ah--a kind of shivering seizes all my Limbs,--and am I so much chang’d? _Wit._ All over, Sir, as big again as you were. L. _Fan._ Your Face is frightfully blown up, and your dear Eyes just starting from your Head; oh, I shall sound with the apprehension on’t. [Falls into _Wittmore’s_ Arms. Sir _Pat._ My Head and Eyes so big, say you: oh, I’m wondrous sick o’th’ sudden,--all over say you--oh, oh--Ay, I perceive it now, my Senses fail me too. L. _Fan._ How, Sir, your Senses fail you? _Wit._ That’s a very bad sign, believe me. Sir _Pat._ Oh, ay, for I can neither feel nor see this mighty growth you speak of. [Falls into a Chair, with great signs of Disorder. _Wit._ Alas, I’m sorry for that, Sir. _Rog._ Sure, ‘tis impossible, I’ll run and fetch a Glass, Sir. [Offers to go.