_Lod._ Let me alone to dispatch this Fool, I long to have him out of the way, he begins to grow troublesome:--but now my Mother expects you. _Lean._ Prithee be careful of me.-- [Exit _Lean._ Sir _Cred._ What was this long Whisper, something about me? _Lod._ Why, yes, faith, I was persuading him to speak to his Friend about this Business; but he swears there’s no hopes of a Reconciliation: you are a dead Man, unless some cleanly conveyance of you be soon thought on. Sir _Cred._ Why, I’ll keep within doors, and defy Malice and foul Weather. _Lod._ Oh, he means to get a Warrant, and search for stolen Goods, prohibited Commodities or Conventicles; there’s a thousand Civil Pretences in this Town to commit Outrages--let me see.-- [They both pause a while. Sir _Cred._ Well, I have thought,--and of such a Business, that the Devil’s in’t if you don’t say I am a man of Intrigue. _Lod._ What is’t? Sir _Cred._ Ha, ha, ha, I must have leave to laugh to think how neatly I shall defeat this Son of a Whore of a thunder thumping Hector. _Lod._ Be serious, Sir, this is no laughing matter; if I might advise, you should steal into the Country, for two or three days, till the Business be blown over. Sir _Cred._ Lord, thou art so hasty and conceited of thy own Invention, thou wilt not give a Man leave to think in thy company: why, these were my very thoughts; nay more, I have found a way to get off clever, though he watch me as narrowly as an enraged Serjeant upon an Escape. _Lod._ That indeed wou’d be a Master-piece. Sir _Cred._ Why, look ye, do you see that great Basket there? _Lod._ I do,--this you mean.-- [Pulls in a Basket. Sir _Cred._ Very well, put me into this Basket, and cord me down, send for a couple of Porters, hoist me away with a Direction, to an old Uncle of mine, one Sir _Anthony Bubleton_ at _Bubleton-Hall_ in _Essex_; and then whip slap-dash, as _Nokes_ says in the Play, I’m gone, and who’s the wiser? _Lod._ I like it well. Sir _Cred._ Nay, lose no time in applauding, I’ll in, the Carrier goes this Morning; farewel, _Lodwick_.-- [Goes Into the Basket. I’ll be here again on _Thursday_. [_Lod._ writes a Direction. Enter Boy. _Lod._ By all means, Sir,--Who’s there,--call a couple of Porters. [Exit Boy. Sir _Cred._ One word more, the Carrier lies at the _Bell_ in _Friday-street_, pray take care they set me not on my Head.-- [Pops in again. Enter Boy and two Porters. _Lod._ Come hither, cord up this Basket, and carry it where he shall direct.--_Leander_ will never think he’s free from a Rival, till he have him in his possession--To Mr. _Leander Fancy’s_ at the next door; say ’.is things for him out of the Country.--Write a Direction to him on the Basket-lid. [Aside to the Boy. [Porters going to carry off the Basket on a long Pole between ‘em. Enter Lady _Knowell_. L. _Kno._ What’s this? whither goes this Basket?