L. _Kno._ Be not amaz’d at this turn, _Rotat omne fatum_.--But no more,--keep still that mask of Love we first put on, till you have gain’d the Writings: for I have no Joy beyond cheating that filthy Uncle of thine.--_Lucretia_, wipe your Eyes, and prepare for _Hymen_, the Hour draws near. _Thalessio_, _Thalessio_, as the _Romans_ cry’d. _Lucr._ May you still be admir’d as you deserve! Enter Sir _Patient_ with Writings, and _Isabella_. Sir _Pat._ How, Madam _Lucretia_, and in Tears? L. _Kno._ A little disgusted, Sir, with her Father-in-law, Sir. Sir _Pat._ Oh, is that all? hold up thy Head, Sweet-heart, thy turn’s next.--Here, Madam, I surrender my Title, with these Writings, and with ’.m my Joy, my Life, my Darling, my _Leander_.--Now let’s away, where’s Mr. _Fainlove_? _Isab._ He’s but stept into _Cheapside_, to fit the Ring, Sir, and will be here immediately. Sir _Pat._ I have Business anon about eleven of the Clock, a Consultation of Physicians, to confer about this Carcase of mine. _Lean._ Physicians, Sir, what to do? Sir _Pat._ To do! why, to take their advice, Sir, and to follow it. _Lean._ For what, I beseech you, Sir? Sir _Pat._ Why, Sir, for my Health. _Lean._ I believe you are not sick, Sir, unless they make you so. Sir _Pat._ They make me so!--Do you hear him, Madam--Am not I sick, Sir? not I, Sir _Patient Fancy_, sick? L. _Kno._ He’ll destroy my Design.--How, Mr. _Fancy_, not Sir _Patient_ sick? or must he be incinerated before you’ll credit it? Sir _Pat._ Ay, Madam, I want but dying to undeceive him, and yet I am not sick! _Lean._ Sir, I love your Life, and wou’d not have you die with Fancy and Conceit.-- Sir _Pat._ Fancy and Conceit! do but observe him, Madam,--what do you mean, Sir, by Fancy and Conceit? L. _Kno._ He’ll ruin all;--why, Sir,--he means-- Sir _Pat._ Nay, let him alone, let him alone, (with your Ladyship’s pardon)--Come, Sir,--Fancy and Conceit, I take it, was the Question in debate.-- _Lean._ I cannot prove this to you, Sir, by force of Argument, but by Demonstration I will, if you will banish all your cozening Quacks, and take my wholesome Advice. Sir _Pat._ Do but hear him, Madam: not prove it! L. _Kno._ Sir, he means nothing.--Not sick! alas, Sir, you’re very sick. Sir _Pat._ Ay, ay, your Ladyship is a Lady of profound Knowledge.--Why, have I not had the advice of all the Doctors in _England_, and have I not been in continual Physick this twenty Years:--and yet I am not sick! Ask my dear Lady, Sir, how sick I am, she can inform you. [L. _Kno._ goes and talks to _Isab._ _Lean._ She does her endeavour, Sir, to keep up the Humour. Sir _Pat._ How, Sir? _Lean._ She wishes you dead, Sir. Sir _Pat._ What said the Rascal? wishes me dead! _Lean._ Sir, she hates you. Sir _Pat._ How! hate me! what, my Lady hate me? _Lean._ She abuses your Love, plays tricks with ye, and cheats ye, Sir. Sir _Pat._ Was ever so profane a Wretch! What, you will not prove this neither?