L. _Fan._ Now, my dear _Wittmore_, claim thy Rites of Love without controul, without the contradiction of wretched Poverty or Jealousy: Now undisguised thou mayst approach my Bed, and reign o’er all my Pleasures and my Fortunes, of which this Minute I create thee Lord, And thus begin my Homage.-- [Kisses him. Sir _Pat._ Sure ‘tis some Fiend! this cannot be my Lady. _Lean._ ‘Tis something uncivil before your face, Sir, to do this. _Wit._ Thou wondrous kind, and wondrous beautiful; that Power that made thee with so many Charms, gave me a Soul fit only to adore ‘em; nor wert thou destin’d to another’s Arms, but to be render’d still more fit for mine. Sir _Pat._ Hah, is not that _Fainlove_, _Isabella’s_ Husband? Oh Villain! Villain! I will renounce my Sense and my Religion. [Aside. L. _Fan._ Another’s Arms! Oh, call not those hated Thoughts to my remembrance, Lest it destroy that kindly Heat within me, Which thou canst only raise and still maintain. Sir _Pat._ Oh Woman! Woman! damn’d dissembling Woman. [Aside. L. _Fan._ Come, let me lead thee to that Mass of Gold he gave me to be despis’d; And which I render thee, my lovely Conqueror, As the first Tribute of my glorious Servitude. Draw in the Basket which I told you of, and is amongst the Rubbish in the Hall. [Exit _Wittmore_.] That which the Slave so many Years was toiling for, I in one moment barter for a Kiss, as Earnest of our future Joys. Sir _Pat._ Was ever so prodigal a Harlot? was this the Saint? was this the most tender Consort that ever Man had? _Lean._ No, in good faith, Sir. Enter _Wittmore_ pulling in the Basket. L. _Fan._ This is it, with a direction on’t to thee, whither I design’d to send it. _Wit._ Good morrow to the Day, and next the Gold; Open the Shrine, that I may see my Saint-- Hail the World’s Soul,-- [Opens the Basket, Sir _Cred._ starts up. L. _Fan._ O Heavens! what thing art thou? Sir _Cred._ O, Pardon, Pardon, sweet Lady, I confess I had a hand in’t. L. _Fan._ In what, thou Slave?-- Sir _Cred._ Killing the good believing Alderman;--but ‘twas against my Will. L. _Fan._ Then I’m not so much oblig’d to thee,--but where’s the Money, the 8000_l._ the Plate and Jewels, Sirrah? _Wit._ Death, the Dog has eat it. Sir _Cred._ Eat it! Oh Lord, eat 8000_l._ Wou’d I might never come out of this Basket alive, if ever I made such a Meal in my Life. _Wit._ Ye Dog, you have eat it; and I’ll make ye swallow all the Doses you writ in your Bill, but I’ll have it upward or downward. [Aside. Sir _Pat._ Hah, one of the Rogues my Doctors. Sir _Cred._ Oh, dear Sir, hang me out of the way rather. Enter _Maundy_. _Maun._ Madam, I have sent away the Basket to Mr. _Wittmore’s_ Lodgings. L. _Fan._ You might have sav’d your self that Labour, I now having no more to do, but to bury the stinking Corps of my quandom Cuckold, dismiss his Daughters, and give thee quiet possession of all. [To _Wit._