_Oft the perfidious things will cry, Alas they burn, they bleed, they die; But if they’re absent half a Day, Nay, let ‘em be but one poor Hour away, No more they die, no more complain, But like unconstant Wretches live again._ _Lod._ Well, have you consider’d of that Business yet, _Isabella_? _Isab._ What business? _Lod._ Of giving me admittance to night. _Isab._ And may I trust your honesty? _Lod._ Oh, doubt me not, my mother’s resolv’d it shall be a match between you and I, and that very consideration will secure thee: besides, who would first sully the Linen they mean to put on? _Isab._ Away, here’s my Mother. Enter Lady _Fancy_ and _Maundy_. L. _Fan._ Madam, I beg your pardon for my absence, the effects of my Obedience, not Will; but Sir _Patient_ is taken very ill o’th’ sudden, and I must humbly intreat your Ladyship to retire, for Rest is only essential to his Recovery. L. _Kno._ Congruously spoken, upon my Honour. Oh, the impudence of this Fellow your Ladyship’s Husband, to espouse so fair a Person only to make a Nurse of! L. _Fan._ Alas, Madam!-- L. _Kno._ A Slave, a very Houshold Drudge.--Oh, faugh, come never grieve;--for, Madam, his Disease is nothing but Imagination, a Melancholy which arises from the Liver, Spleen, and Membrane call’d _Mesenterium_; the _Arabians_ name the Distemper _Myrathial_, and we here in _England_, _Hypochondriacal Melancholy_; I cou’d prescribe a most potent Remedy, but that I am loth to stir the Envy of the College. L. _Fan._ Really, Madam, I believe-- L. _Kno._ But as you say, Madam, we’ll leave him to his Repose; pray do not grieve too much. _Lod._ Death! wou’d I had the consoling her, ‘tis a charming Woman! L. _Kno._ Mr. _Fancy_, your Hand; Madam, your most faithful Servant.--_Lucretia_, come, _Lucretia_.--Your Servant, Ladies and Gentleman. L. _Fan._ A Devil on her, wou’d the Nimbleness of her Ladyship’s Tongue were in her Heels, she wou’d make more haste away: oh, I long for the blest minute. _Lod._ _Isabella_, shall I find admittance anon? _Isab._ On fair Conditions. _Lod._ Trust my Generosity.--Madam, your Slave. [Ex. [To L. _Fan._ gazing on her, goes out. Sir _Cred._ Madam, I wou’d say something of your Charms and celestial Graces, but that all Praises are as far below you, as the Moon in her Opposition is below the Sun;--and so, luscious Lady, I am yours: Now for my Serenade-- [Ex. all but L. _Fan._ and _Maundy_. L. _Fan._ _Maundy_, have you commanded all the Servants to bed? _Maun._ Yes, Madam, not a Mouse shall stir, and I have made ready the Chamber next the Garden for your Ladyship. L. _Fan._ Then there needs no more but that you wait for _Wittmore’s_ coming to the Garden-Gate, and take care no Lights be in the House for fear of Eyes. _Maun._ Madam, I understand Lovers are best by dark, and shall be diligent: the Doctor has secur’d Sir _Patient_ by a sleeping Pill, and you are only to expect your approaching Happiness. [Exeunt.