Sir _Pat._ Ah, what a Blessing I possess in so excellent a Wife! and in regard I am every day descending to my Grave.--ah--I will no longer hide from thee the Provision I have made for thee, in case I die.-- L. _Fan._ This is the Musick that I long’d to hear.--Die!--Oh, that fatal Word will kill me-- [Weeps. Name it no more, if you’d preserve my Life. Sir _Pat._ Hah--now cannot I refrain joining with her in affectionate Tears.--No, but do not weep for me, my excellent Lady, for I have made a pretty competent Estate for thee. Eight thousand Pounds, which I have conceal’d in my Study behind the Wainscot on the left hand as you come in. L. _Fan._ Oh, tell me not of transitory Wealth, for I’m resolv’d not to survive thee. Eight thousand Pound say you?--Oh, I cannot endure the thoughts on’t. [Weeps. Sir _Pat._ Eight thousand Pounds just, my dearest Lady. L. _Fan._ Oh, you’ll make me desperate in naming it,--is it in Gold or Silver? Sir _Pat._ In Gold, my dearest, the most part, the rest in Silver. L. _Fan._ Good Heavens! why should you take such pleasure in afflicting me? [Weeps.] --Behind the Wainscot say you? Sir _Pat._ Behind the Wainscot, prithee be pacified,--thou makest me lose my greatest Virtue, Moderation, to see thee thus: alas, we’re all born to die.-- L. _Fan._ Again of dying! Uncharitable Man, why do you delight in tormenting me?--On the left hand, say you as you go in? Sir _Pat._ On the left hand, my Love: had ever Man such a Wife? L. _Fan._ Oh, my Spirits fail me--lead me, or I shall faint,--lead me to the Study, and shew me where ‘tis,--for I am able to hear no more of it. Sir _Pat._ I will, if you will promise indeed and indeed, not to grieve too much. [Going to lead her out. Enter _Wittmore_. _Wit._ Heaven grant me some kind opportunity to speak with _Lucia_! hah, she’s here,--and with her the fond Cuckold her Husband.--Death, he has spy’d me, there’s no avoiding him.-- Sir _Pat._ Oh, are you there, Sir?--_Maundy_, look to my Lady,--I take it, Sir, you have not dealt well with a Person of my Authority and Gravity. [Gropes for the Letter in his pocket. _Wit._ So this can be nothing less than my being found out to be no _Yorkshire_ Esq; a Pox of my _Geneva_ Breeding; it must be so, what the Devil shall I say now? Sir _Pat._ And this disingenuous dealing does ill become the Person you have represented, I take it. _Wit._ Represented! ay, there ‘tis, wou’d I were handsomely off o’ this Business; neither _Lucia_ nor _Maundy_ have any intelligence in their demure looks that can instruct a Man.--Why, faith, Sir,--I must confess,--I am to blame--and that I have--a-- L. _Fan._ Oh, _Maundy_, he’ll discover all, what shall we do? Sir _Pat._ Have what, Sir? _Wit._ From my violent Passion for your Daughter-- L. _Fan._ Oh, I’m all Confusion.-- _Wit._ Egad, I am i’th wrong, I see by _Lucia’s_ Looks.