The Lady Fancy’s Bed-Chamber; she’s discover’d with Wittmore in disorder. A Table, Sword, and Hat.
Maun. [Entering.] O Madam, Sir Patient’s coming up.
L. Fan. Coming up, say you!
Maun. He’s almost on the top of the Stairs, Madam.
Wit. What shall I do?
L. Fan. Oh, damn him, I know not; if he see thee here after my pretended Illness, he must needs discover why I feign’d. — I have no excuse ready, — this Chamber’s unlucky, there’s no avoiding him; here — step behind the Bed; perhaps he has only forgot his Psalm-Book and will not stay long.
[Wittmore runs behind the Bed.
Enter Sir Patient.
Sir Pat. Oh, oh, pardon this Interruption, my Lady Fancy — Oh, I am half killed, my Daughter, my Honour — my Daughter, my Reputation.
L. Fan. Good Heavens, Sir, is she dead?
Sir Pat. I wou’d she were, her Portion and her Honour would then be sav’d. But oh, I’m sick at Heart, Maundy, fetch me the Bottle of Mirabilis in the Closet, — she’s wanton, unchaste.
Enter Maundy with the Bottle.
Oh, I cannot speak it; oh, the Bottle — [Drinks.] she has lost her Fame, her Shame, her Name. — Oh, [Drinks.] that is not the right Bottle, that with the red Cork [Drinks.]
[Exit Maundy.
and is grown a very t’other-end-of-the-Town Creature, a very Apple of Sodom, fair without and filthy within, what shall we do with her? she’s lost, undone; hah!
Enter Maundy.
let me see, [Drinks.] this is [Drinks.] not as I take it — [Drinks.] — no, ’tis not the right, — she’s naught, she’s leud, [Drinks.] — oh, how you vex me — [Drinks.] This is not the right Bottle yet, — [Drinks.] No, no, here.
[Gives her the Bottle.
Maun. You said that with the red Cork, Sir.
[Goes out.
Sir Pat. I meant the blue; — I know not what I say. — In fine, my Lady, let’s marry her out of hand, for she is fall’n, fall’n to Perdition; she understands more Wickedness than had she been bred in a profane Nunnery, a Court,
Enter Maundy.
or a Play-house, [Drinks.] — therefore let’s marry her instantly, out of hand [Drinks.] Misfortune on Misfortune. [Drinks.] — But Patience is a wonderful Virtue, [Drinks.] — Ha — this is very comfortable, — very consoling — I profess if it were not for these Creatures, ravishing Comforts, sometimes, a Man were a very odd sort of an Animal [Drinks.] But ah — see how all things were ordain’d for the use and comfort of Man.
[Drinks.]
L. Fan. I like this well: Ah, Sir, ’tis very true, therefore receive it plentifully and thankfully.
Sir Pat. [Drinks.] Ingenuously — it hath made me marvellous lightsome; I profess it hath a very notable Faculty, — very knavish — and as it were, waggish, — but hah, what have we there on the Table? a Sword and Hat?
[Sees Wittmore’s Sword and Hat on the Table, which he had
forgot.
L. Fan. Curse on my Dulness. — Oh, these, Sir, they are Mr. Fainlove’s — he being so soon to be marry’d and being straitned for time, sent these to Maundy to be new trim’d with Ribbon, Sir — that’s all. Take ‘em away, you naughty Baggage, must I have Mens things seen in my Chamber?
Sir Pat. Nay, nay, be not angry, my little Rogue; I like the young Man’s Frugality well. Go, go your ways, get you gone, and finefy your Knacks and Tranghams, and do your Business — go.
[Smiling on Maundy, gently beating her with his Hand: she goes
out, he bolts the Door after her, and sits down on the Bed’s feet.
L. Fan. Heavens, what means he!
Sir Pat. Come hither to me, my little Ape’s Face, — Come, come I say — what, must I come fetch you? — Catch her, catch her — catch her, catch her, catch her.
[Running after her.
L. Fan. Oh, Sir, I am so ill I can hardly stir.
Sir Pat. I’ll make ye well, come hither, ye Monky-face, did it, did it, did it? alas for it, a poor silly Fool’s Face, dive it a blow, and I’ll beat it.
L. Fan. You neglect your Devotion, Sir.
Sir Pat. No, no, no Prayer to day, my little Rascal, — no Prayer to day — poor Gogle’s sick. — Come hither, why, you refractory Baggage you, come or I shall touze you, ingenuously I shall; tom, tom, or I’ll whip it.
L. Fan. Have you forgot your Daughter, Sir, and your Disgrace?
Sir Pat. A fiddle on my Daughter, she’s a Chick of the old Cock I profess; I was just such another Wag when young. — But she shall be marry’d to morrow, a good Cloke for her Knavery; therefore come your ways, ye Wag, we’ll take a nap together: good faith, my little Harlot, I mean thee no harm.
L. Fan. No, o’ my Conscience.
Sir Pat. Why then, why then, you little Mungrel?
L. Fan. His precise Worship is as it were disguis’d, the outward Man is over-taken — pray, Sir, lie down, and I’ll come to you presently.
Sir Pat. Away, you Wag, will you? will you? — Catch her there, catch her.
L. Fan. I will indeed, — Death, there’s no getting from him, — pray lie down — and I’ll cover thee close enough I’ll warrant thee. — [Aside.
[He lies down, she covers him.
Had ever Lovers such spiteful luck! hah — surely he sleeps, bless the mistaken Bottle. — Ay, he sleeps, — whilst, Wittmore —
[He coming out falls; pulls the Chair down, Sir Patient flings
open the Curtain.
Wit. Plague of my over-care, what shall I do?
Sir Pat. What’s that, what Noise is that? let me see, we are not safe; lock up the Doors, what’s the matter? What Thunder-Clap was that?
[Wittmore runs under the Bed; she runs to Sir Patient, and
holds him in his Bed.
L. Fan. Pray, Sir, lie still, ’twas I was only going to sit down, and a sudden Giddiness took me in my Head, which made me fall, and with me the Chair; there is no danger near ye, Sir — I was just coming to sleep by you.
Sir Pat. Go, you’re a flattering Huswife; go, catch her, catch her, catch her.
[Lies down, she covers him.
L. Fan. Oh, how I tremble at the dismal apprehension of being discover’d! Had I secur’d my self of the eight thousand Pound, I wou’d not value Wittmore’s being seen. But now to be found out, wou’d call my Wit in question, for ’tis the Fortunate alone are wise. —
[Wittmore peeps from under the Bed; she goes softly to the Door
to open it.
Wit. Was ever Man so plagu’d? — hah — what’s this? — confound my tell-tale Watch, the Larum goes, and there’s no getting to’t to silence it. — Damn’d Misfortune!
[Sir Patient rises, and flings open the Curtains.
Sir Pat. Hah, what’s that?
L. Fan. Heavens! what’s the matter? we are destin’d to discovery.
[She runs to Sir Patient, and leaves the Door still fast.
Sir Pat. What’s that I say, what’s that? let me see, let me see, what ringing’s that, Oh, let me see what ’tis.
[Strives to get up, she holds him down.
L. Fan. Oh, now I see my Fate’s inevitable! Alas, that ever I was born to see’t.
[Weeps.
Wit. Death, she’ll tell him I am here: Nay, he must know’t, a Pox of all Invention and Mechanicks, and he were damn’d that first contriv’d a Watch.
Sir Pat. Hah, dost weep? — why dost weep? I say, what Noise is that? what ringing? hah. —
L. Fan. ’Tis that, ’tis that, my Dear, that makes me weep. Alas, I never hear this fatal Noise, but some dear Friend dies.
Sir Pat. Hah, dies! Oh, that must be I, ay, ay, Oh.
L. Fan. I’ve heard it, Sir, this two Days, but wou’d not tell you of it.
Sir Pat. Hah! heard it these two Days! Oh, what is’t a Death-watch? — hah. —
L. Fan. Ay, Sir, a Death-watch, a certain Larum Death-watch, a thing that has warn’d our Family this hundred Years, oh, — I’m the most undone Woman!
Wit. A Blessing on her for a dear dissembling Jilt — Death and the Devil, will it never cease?
Sir Pat. A Death-watch! ah, ’tis so, I’ve often heard of these things — methinks it sounds as if ‘twere under the Bed. —
[Offers to look, she holds him.
L. Fan. You think so, Sir, but that ’tis about the Bed is my Grief; it therefore threatens you: Oh wretched Woman!
Sir Pat. Ay, ay, I’m too happy in a Wife to live long: Well, I will settle my House at Hogsdowne, with the Land about it, which is 500l. a Year upon thee, live or die, — do not grieve. —
[Lays himself down.
L. Fan. Oh, I never had more Cause; come try to sleep, your Fate may be diverted — whilst I’ll to Prayers for your dear Health. — [Covers him, draws the Curtains.] I have almost run out all my stock of Hypocrisy, and that hated Art now fails me. — Oh all ye Powers that favour distrest Lovers, assist us now, and I’ll provide against your future Malice.
[She makes Signs to Wittmore, he peeps.
Wit. I’m impatient of Freedom, yet so much Happiness as I but now injoy’d without this part of Suffering had made me too blest. — Death and Damnation! what curst luck have I?
[Makes Signs to her to open the Door: whilst he creeps softly from
under the Bed to the Table, by which going to raise himself, he
pulls down all the Dressing-things: at the same instant Sir
Patient leaps from the Bed, and she returns from the Door, and
sits on Wittmore’s Back as he lies on his Hands and Knees, and
makes as if she swooned.
Sir Pat. What’s the matter? what’s the matter? has Satan broke his everlasting Chain, and got loose abroad to plague poor Mortals? hah — what’s the matter?
[Runs to his Lady.
L. Fan. Oh, help, I die — I faint — run down, and call for help.
Sir Pat. My Lady dying? oh, she’s gone, she faints, — what ho, who waits?
[Cries and bauls.
L. Fan. Oh, go down and bring me help, the Door is lock’d, — they cannot hear ye, — oh — I go — I die. —
[He opens the Door, and calls help, help.
Wit. Damn him! there’s no escaping without I kill the Dog.
[From under her, peeping.
L. Fan. Lie still, or we are undone. —
Sir Patient returns with Maundy.
Maun. Hah, discover’d!
Sir Pat. Help, help, my Lady dies.
Maun. Oh, I perceive how’tis. — Alas, she’s dead, quite gone; oh, rub her Temples, Sir.
Sir Pat. Oh, I’m undone then, — [Weeps.] Oh my Dear, my virtuous Lady!
L. Fan. Oh, where’s my Husband, my dearest Husband — Oh, bring him near me.
Sir Pat. I’m here, my excellent Lady. —
[She takes him about the Neck, and raises her self up, gives
Wittmore a little kick behind.
Wit. Oh the dear lovely Hypocrite, was ever Man so near discovery? —
[Goes out.
Sir Pat. Oh, how hard she presses my Head to her Bosom!
Maun. Ah, that grasping hard, Sir, is a very bad Sign.
Sir Pat. How does my good, my dearest Lady Fancy?
L. Fan. Something better now, give me more Air, — that dismal Larum Death-watch had almost kill’d me.
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.