Sir _Pat._ I meant the blue;--I know not what I say.-- In fine, my Lady, let’s marry her out of hand, for she is fall’n, fall’n to Perdition; she understands more Wickedness than had she been bred in a profane Nunnery, a Court, Enter _Maundy_. or a Play-house, [Drinks.] --therefore let’s marry her instantly, out of hand [Drinks.] Misfortune on Misfortune. [Drinks.] --But Patience is a wonderful Virtue, [Drinks.] --Ha--this is very comfortable,--very consoling--I profess if it were not for these Creatures, ravishing Comforts, sometimes, a Man were a very odd sort of an Animal [Drinks.] But ah--see how all things were ordain’d for the use and comfort of Man. [Drinks.] L. _Fan._ I like this well: Ah, Sir, ‘tis very true, therefore receive it plentifully and thankfully. Sir _Pat._ [Drinks.] Ingenuously--it hath made me marvellous lightsome; I profess it hath a very notable Faculty,--very knavish--and as it were, waggish,--but hah, what have we there on the Table? a Sword and Hat? [Sees _Wittmore’s_ Sword and Hat on the Table, which he had forgot. L. _Fan._ Curse on my Dulness.--Oh, these, Sir, they are Mr. _Fainlove’s_--he being so soon to be marry’d and being straitned for time, sent these to _Maundy_ to be new trim’d with Ribbon, Sir--that’s all. Take ‘em away, you naughty Baggage, must I have Mens things seen in my Chamber? Sir _Pat._ Nay, nay, be not angry, my little Rogue; I like the young Man’s Frugality well. Go, go your ways, get you gone, and finefy your Knacks and Tranghams, and do your Business--go. [Smiling on _Maundy_, gently beating her with his Hand: she goes out, he bolts the Door after her, and sits down on the Bed’s feet. L. _Fan._ Heavens, what means he! Sir _Pat._ Come hither to me, my little Ape’s Face,--Come, come I say--what, must I come fetch you?--Catch her, catch her--catch her, catch her, catch her. [Running after her. L. _Fan._ Oh, Sir, I am so ill I can hardly stir. Sir _Pat._ I’ll make ye well, come hither, ye Monky-face, did it, did it, did it? alas for it, a poor silly Fool’s Face, dive it a blow, and I’ll beat it. L. _Fan._ You neglect your Devotion, Sir. Sir _Pat._ No, no, no Prayer to day, my little Rascal,--no Prayer to day--poor _Gogle’s_ sick.--Come hither, why, you refractory Baggage you, come or I shall touze you, ingenuously I shall; tom, tom, or I’ll whip it. L. _Fan._ Have you forgot your Daughter, Sir, and your Disgrace? Sir _Pat._ A fiddle on my Daughter, she’s a Chick of the old Cock I profess; I was just such another Wag when young.--But she shall be marry’d to morrow, a good Cloke for her Knavery; therefore come your ways, ye Wag, we’ll take a nap together: good faith, my little Harlot, I mean thee no harm. L. _Fan._ No, o’ my Conscience. Sir _Pat._ Why then, why then, you little Mungrel? L. _Fan._ His precise Worship is as it were disguis’d, the outward Man is over-taken--pray, Sir, lie down, and I’ll come to you presently.