SCENE VII. _Changes to Lady _Fancy’s_ Bed-chamber, discovers her as before; _Lodwick_ as just risen in Disorder from the Bed, buttoning himself, and setting himself in order; and Noise at the Door of unlatching it._ Enter _Isabella_ groping, Sir _Patient_ without. L. _Fan._ It is this Door that open’d, and which I thought I had secur’d. Sir _Pat._ [Within.] Oh, insupportable, abominable, and not to be indur’d! _Isab._ Hah, my Father! I’m discover’d and pursu’d,--grant me to find the Bed. L. _Fan._ Heavens! ‘twas my Husband’s Voice, sure we’re betray’d. It must be so, for what Devil but that of Jealousy cou’d raise him at this late hour? _Isab._ Hah, where am I, and who is’t that speaks-- [To her self. _Lod._ So, he must know that I have made a Cuckold of him. [Aside. Sir _Pat._ [Within.] Call up my Men, the Coachman, Groom, and Butler, the Footmen, Cook, and Gardiner; bid ‘em all rise and arm, with long Staff, Spade and Pitchfork, and sally out upon the Wicked. _Lod._ S’heart! what a Death shall I die:--is there no place of safety hereabouts--for there is no resisting these unmerciful Weapons. _Isab._ A Man’s Voice! L. _Fan._ I know of none, nor how to prevent your Discovery. Sir _Pat._ [Within.] Oh, oh, lead me forward, I’ll lie here on the Garden-side, out of the hearing of this Hellish Noise. L. _Fan._ Hah, Noise!--what means he? _Lod._ Nay, I know not, is there no escaping?-- _Isab._ Who can they be that talk thus? sure I have mistook my Chamber. L. _Fan._ Oh, he’s coming in--I’m ruin’d; what shall we do? here--get into the Bed--and cover your self with the Clothes--quickly--oh, my Confusion will betray me. [_Lodwick_ gets into the Bed, _Isabella_ hides behind the Curtain very near to him. Enter Sir _Patient_, led by _Nurse_ and _Maundy_, with Lights. _Maun._ Pray go back, Sir, my poor Lady will be frighted out of her Wits at this danger you put your self into, the Noise shall be still’d. L. _Fan._ Oh, what’s the matter with my Love? what, do you mean to murder him? oh, lead him instantly back to his Bed. Sir _Pat._ Oh, oh, no, I’ll lie here,--put me to bed, oh, I faint,--my Chamber’s possest with twenty thousand Evil Spirits. L. _Fan._ Possest! what sickly Fancy’s this? Sir _Pat._ Ah, the House is beset, surrounded and confounded with profane tinkling, with Popish Horn-Pipes, and Jesuitical Cymbals, more Antichristian and Abominable than Organs, or Anthems. _Nurse._ Yea verily, and surely it is the spawn of Cathedral Instruments plaid on by Babylonish Minstrels, only to disturb the Brethren. Sir _Pat._ Ay, ‘tis so, call up my Servants, and let them be first chastiz’d and then hang’d; accuse ‘em for _French_ Papishes, that had a design to fire the City, or any thing:--oh, I shall die--lead me gently to this Bed. L. _Fan._ To hinder him will discover all:--stay, Sir.--