_Ptis._ Oh, Sir; here is a servant of the countess of Hippokekoana. The emetick has over-wrought and she is in convulsions. _Foss._ This is unfortunate. Then I must go. Mr. Ptisan, my dear, has some business with me in private. Retire into my closet a moment, and divert yourself with the pictures. There lies your way, madam. [_To Sarsnet._ [_Exit Townley at one door and Sarsnet at the other._ Mr. Ptisan, pray, do you run before, and tell them I am just coming. [_Exit Ptisan._ All my distresses come on the neck of one another. Should this fellow get to my bride before I have bedded her, in a collection of cuckolds, what a rarity should I make! what shall I do? I'll lock her up. Lock up my bride? my pace and my honour demand it, and it shall be so. [_Locks the door._] Thomas, Thomas! Enter footman. I dream't last night I was robb'd. The town is over-run with rogues. Who knows but the rascal that sent the letter may be now in the house? [_Aside._] Look up the chimney, search all the dark closets, the coal hole, the flower-pots, and forget not the empty butt in the cellar. Keep a strict watch at the door, and let no body in till my return. [_Exit footman. A noise at the closet-door._ (_within._) Who's there?----I'm lock'd in. Murder! fire! _Foss._ Dear madam, I beg your pardon. [_Unlocks the door._ Enter TOWNLEY.] 'Tis well you call'd. I am so apt to lock this door; an action meerly mechanical, not spontaneous. _Town._ Your conduct, Mr. Fossile, for this quarter of an hour has been somewhat mysterious. It has suggested to me what I almost blush to name; your locking me up, confirms this suspicion. Pray speak plainly, what has caused this alteration? [_Fossile shews her the letter._ Is this all? [_Gives him the letter back._ _Foss._ (reads) Either I mistake the encouragement I have had. What encouragement? _Town._ From my uncle,----if I must be your interpreter. _Foss._ Or I am to be happy to night. _Town._ To be married.----If there can be happiness in that state. _Foss._ I hope the same person. _Town._ Parson. Only a word mis-pell'd.----Here's jealousy for you! _Foss._ Will compleat her good offices. A she-parson, I find! _Town._ He is a Welshman. And the Welsh always say her instead of his. _Foss._ I stand to articles. _Town._ Of jointure. _Foss._ The ring is a fine one, and I shall have the pleasure of putting it on my self. _Town._ Who should put on the wedding-ring but the bridegroom. _Foss._ I beseech thee, pardon thy dear husband. Love and jealousy are often companions, and excess of both had quite obnubilated the eyes of my understanding. _Town._ Barbarous man! I could forgive thee, if thou hadst poison'd my father, debauch'd my sister, kill'd my lapdog; but to murder my reputation! [_Weeps._ _Foss._ Nay, I beseech thee, forgive me. [_Kneels._