Sir _Pat._ Ah precious Creature, how she afflicts her self for me.--Come, let’s walk into the Dining-room, ‘tis more airy, from thence into my Study, and make thy self Mistress of that Fortune I have design’d thee, thou best of Women. [Exeunt, leading her. ACT V. SCENE I. _A Room in Sir _Patient Fancy’s_ House. A Table, and six Chairs._ Enter _Isabella_ reading a Letter, _Betty_ tricking her. _Isab._ How came you by this Letter? _Bet._ Miss _Fanny_ receiv’d it by a String from his Window, by which he took up that you writ to him this Morning. _Isab._ What means this nicety? forbear I say.-- [Puts _Betty_ from her. _Bet._ You cannot be too fine upon your Wedding-day. _Isab._ Thou art mistaken, leave me,--whatever he says here to satisfy my Jealousy, I am confirm’d that he was false: yet this assurance to free me from this intended Marriage, makes me resolve to pardon him, however guilty.-- Enter _Wittmore_. How now! what means this Insolence? How dare you, having so lately made your guilty approaches, venture again into my presence? _Wit._ Why? Is there any danger, but what’s so visible in those fair Eyes? _Isab._ And there may lie enough, Sir, when they’re angry. By what Authority do you make this saucy Visit? _Wit._ That of a Husband, Madam; I come to congratulate the mighty Joy this Day will bring you. _Isab._ Thou darst not marry me, there will be danger in’t. _Wit._ Why, sure you do not carry Death in your Embraces, I find no Terror in that lovely Shape, no Daggers in that pretty scornful Look; that Breath that utters so much Anger now, last night was sweet as new-blown Roses are,--and spoke such Words, so tender and so kind. _Isab._ And canst thou think they were address’d to thee? _Wit._ No, nor cou’d the Shade of Night hide the Confusion which disorder’d you, at the discovery that I was not he, the blessed he you look’d for. _Isab._ Leave me, thou hated Object of my Soul. _Wit._ This will not serve your turn, for I must marry you. _Isab._ Then thou art a Fool, and drawest thy Ruin on; why, I will hate thee,--hate thee most extremely. _Wit._ That will not anger me. _Isab._ Why, I will never let thee touch me, nor kiss my Hand, nor come into my sight. _Wit._ Are there no other Women kind, fair, and to be purchas’d? he cannot starve for Beauty in this Age, that has a stock to buy. _Isab._ Why, I will cuckold thee, look to’t, I will most damnably. _Wit._ So wou’d you, had you lov’d me, in a year or two; therefore like a kind civil Husband, I’ve made provision for you, a Friend, and one I dare trust my Honour with,--’tis Mr. _Knowell_, Madam. _Isab._ _Lodwick!_ What Devil brought that Name to his knowledge?--Canst thou know him, and yet dare hope to marry me? _Wit._ We have agreed it, and on these conditions.