_Isab._ Thou basely injurest him, he cannot do a Deed he ought to blush for: _Lodwick_ do this! Oh, do not credit it,--prithee be just and kind for thy own Honour’s sake; be quickly so, the hasty minutes fly, and will anon make up the fatal Hour that will undo me. _Wit._ ‘Tis true, within an hour you must submit to _Hymen_, there’s no avoiding it. _Isab._ Nay, then be gone, my poor submissive Prayers, and all that dull Obedience Custom has made us Slaves to.--Do sacrifice me, lead me to the Altar, and see if all the holy mystick Words can conjure from me the consenting Syllable: No, I will not add one word to make the Charm complete, but stand as silent in the inchanting Circle, as if the Priests were raising Devils there. Enter _Lodwick_. _Lod._ Enough, enough, my charming _Isabella_, I am confirm’d. _Isab._ _Lodwick!_ what good Angel conducted thee hither? _Lod._ E’en honest _Charles Wittmore_ here, thy Friend and mine, no Bug-bear Lover he. _Isab._ _Wittmore!_ that Friend I’ve often heard thee name? Now some kind mischief on him, he has so frighted me, I scarce can bring my Sense to so much order, to thank him that he loves me not. _Lod._ Thou shalt defer that payment to more leisure; we’re Men of business now. My Mother, knowing of a Consultation of Physicians which your Father has this day appointed to meet at his House, has bribed Monsieur _Turboone_ his _French_ Doctor in Pension, to admit of a Doctor or two of her recommending, who shall amuse him with discourse till we get ourselves married; and to make it the more ridiculous, I will release Sir _Credulous_ from the Basket, I saw it in the Hall as I came through, we shall have need of the Fool. [Exit _Wittmore_. Enter _Wittmore_, pulling in the Basket. _Wit._ ‘Twill do well. _Lod._ Sir _Credulous_, how is’t, Man? [Opens the Basket. Sir _Cred._ What, am I not at the Carrier’s yet?--Oh _Lodwick_, thy Hand, I’m almost poison’d--This Basket wants airing extremely, it smells like an old Lady’s Wedding Gown of my acquaintance.--But what’s the danger past, Man? _Lod._ No, but there’s a necessity of your being for some time disguis’d to act a Physician. Sir _Cred._ How! a Physician! that I can easily do, for I understand Simples. _Lod._ That’s not material, so you can but banter well, be very grave, and put on a starch’d Countenance. Sir _Cred._ Banter! what’s that, Man? _Lod._ Why, Sir, talking very much, and meaning just nothing; be full of Words without any connection, sense or conclusion. Come in with me, and I’ll instruct you farther. Sir _Cred._ Pshaw, is that all? say no more on’t, I’ll do’t, let me alone for Bantering--But this same damn’d Rival-- _Lod._ He’s now watching for you without and means to souse upon you; but trust to me for your security; come away, I have your Habit ready. [Goes out.] --This day shall make thee mine, dear _Isabella_.-- [Exit _Lodwick_ and _Wittmore_. Enter Sir _Patient_, _Leander_, and _Roger_.