_Lod._ I’m fix’d: Death, was ever such a Lover? Just ready for the highest Joys of Love, And like a bashful Girl restrain’d by Fear Of an insuing Infamy--I hate to cuckold my own Expectations. L. _Fan._ Heavens! what can you mean? _Lod._ Death, what’s this?--sure ‘tis not Virtue in me,--Pray Heaven it be not Impotence!--Where got I this damn’d Honesty, which I never found my self master of till now!--why shou’d it seize me when I had least need on’t? L. _Fan._ What ails you? are you mad?--we are safe, and free as Winds let loose to ruffle all the Groves; what is’t delays you then? Soft. _Lod._ Pox o’ this thought of Wife, the very Name destroys my appetite. Oh, with what Vigour I could deal my Love To some fair leud unknown, To whom I’d never made a serious Vow! L. _Fan._ Tell me the Mystery of this sudden Coldness: have I kept my Husband in Town for this? Nay, persuaded him to be very sick to serve our purpose, and am I thus rewarded--ungrateful Man! _Lod._ Hah,--’tis not _Isabella’s_ Voice,--your Husband, say you? [Takes hold greedily of her Hand. L. _Fan._ Is safe, from any fear of interrupting us. Come--these Delays do ill consist with Love And our Desires; at least if they are equal. _Lod._ Death, ‘tis the charming Mother! What lucky Star directed me to night? O my fair Dissembler, let us haste To pay the mighty Tributes due to Love. L. _Fan._ Follow me then with careful Silence,--for _Isabella’s_ Chamber joins to this, and she may hear us. _Lod_. Not Flowers grow, nor smooth Streams glide away, Not absent Lovers sigh, nor breaks the Day, More silently than I’ll those Joys receive, Which Love and Darkness do conspire to give. [Exeunt. SCENE V. Changes again to a Garden. Enter _Isabella_ and _Fanny_ in their Night-gowns. _Isab._ Well, I have no mind to let this dear mad Devil _Lodwick_ in to night. _Fan._ Why, Sister, this is not the first Venture you have made of this kind, at this Hour, and in this Place; these Arbours were they tell-tales, cou’d discover many pretty stories of your Loves, and do you think they’ll be less faithful now? pray trust them once again. Oh, I do so love to hear Mr. _Lodwick_ protest, and vow, and swear, and dissemble, and when you don’t believe him, rail at you,--avads, ‘tis the prettiest Man-- _Isab._ I have a strange apprehension of being surpriz’d to night. _Fan._ I’ll warrant you, I’ll sit on yon Bank of Pinks, and when I hear a Noise I’ll come and tell you; so _Lodwick_ may slip out at the back Gate, and we may be walking up and down as if we meant no harm. _Isab._ You’ll grow very expert in the Arts of Love, _Fanny_.