_Fan._ No, indeed, Sir Father, nothing. Sir _Pat._ But what did she say to the Man again? _Fan._ She said, let me see.--Ay, she said, Lord, you’ll forget your self, and stay till somebody catch us. Sir _Pat._ Ah, very fine,--then what said he? _Fan._ Then he said, Well if I must be gone, let me leave thee with this hearty Curse, A Pox take thee all over for making me love thee so confoundedly. Sir _Pat._ Oh horrible! _Fan._ --Oh, I cou’d live here for ever,--that was when he kist her--her Hand only. Are you not a damn’d Woman for making so fond a Puppy of me? Sir _Pat._ Oh unheard-of Wickedness! _Fan._ Wou’d the Devil had thee, and all thy Family, e’er I had seen thy cursed Face. Sir _Pat._ Oh, I’ll hear no more, I’ll hear no more!--why, what a blasphemous Wretch is this? _Fan._ Pray, Sir Father, do not tell my Sister of this, she’ll be horribly angry with me. Sir _Pat._ No, no, get you gone.--Oh, I am Heart-sick--I’ll up and consult with my Lady what’s fit to be done in this Affair. Oh, never was the like heard of.-- [Goes out, _Fanny_ and _Nurse_ go the other way. SCENE IV. _The Lady _Fancy’s_ Bed-Chamber; she’s discover’d with _Wittmore_ in disorder. A Table, Sword, and Hat._ _Maun._ [Entering.] O Madam, Sir _Patient’s_ coming up. L. _Fan._ Coming up, say you! _Maun._ He’s almost on the top of the Stairs, Madam. _Wit._ What shall I do? L. _Fan._ Oh, damn him, I know not; if he see thee here after my pretended Illness, he must needs discover why I feign’d.--I have no excuse ready,--this Chamber’s unlucky, there’s no avoiding him; here--step behind the Bed; perhaps he has only forgot his Psalm-Book and will not stay long. [_Wittmore_ runs behind the Bed. Enter Sir _Patient_. Sir _Pat._ Oh, oh, pardon this Interruption, my Lady _Fancy_--Oh, I am half killed, my Daughter, my Honour--my Daughter, my Reputation. L. _Fan._ Good Heavens, Sir, is she dead? Sir _Pat._ I wou’d she were, her Portion and her Honour would then be sav’d. But oh, I’m sick at Heart, _Maundy_, fetch me the Bottle of _Mirabilis_ in the Closet,--she’s wanton, unchaste. Enter _Maundy_ with the Bottle. Oh, I cannot speak it; oh, the Bottle-- [Drinks.] she has lost her Fame, her Shame, her Name.--Oh, [Drinks.] that is not the right Bottle, that with the red Cork [Drinks.] [Exit _Maundy_. and is grown a very t’other-end-of-the-Town Creature, a very Apple of _Sodom_, fair without and filthy within, what shall we do with her? she’s lost, undone; hah! Enter _Maundy_. let me see, [Drinks.] this is [Drinks.] not as I take it-- [Drinks.] --no, ‘tis not the right,--she’s naught, she’s leud, [Drinks.] --oh, how you vex me-- [Drinks.] This is not the right Bottle yet,-- [Drinks.] No, no, here. [Gives her the Bottle. _Maun._ You said that with the red Cork, Sir. [Goes out.