Blunt. Some heathen Papist, by his notable Plots and Contrivances.
Will. ’Tis Hunt, that Rogue— [Aside.] Sir, I confess there is great Power in Sympathy—Conduct him to the Ladies— [He tries to go in at the Door.
—I am sorry you cannot enter at that low Door, Seignior, I’ll have it broken down—
Hunt. No, Seignior, I can go in at twice.
Feth. How, at twice! what a Pox can he mean?
Will. Oh, Sir,’tis a frequent thing by way of Inchantment. [Hunt being all Doublet, leaps off from another Man who is all Breeches, and goes out; Breeches follows stalking.
Feth. Oh Pox, Mr. Doctor, this must be the Devil.
Will. Oh fie, Sir, the Devil! no ’tis all done by an inchanted Girdle—These damn’d Rascals will spoil all by too gross an Imposition on the Fools. [Aside.
Feth. This is the Devil, Ned, that’s certain—But hark ye, Mr. Doctor, I hope I shall not have my Mistress inchanted from me by this inchanted Rival, hah?
Will. Oh, no, Sir, the Inquisition will never let ’em marry, for fear of a Race of Giants,’twill be worse than the Invasion of the Moors, or the French: but go—think of your Mistresses Names and Ages, here’s Company, and you would not be seen. [Ex. Blunt and Feth.