L. Fan. Again of dying! Uncharitable Man, why do you delight in tormenting me?—On the left hand, say you as you go in?
Sir Pat. On the left hand, my Love: had ever Man such a Wife?
L. Fan. Oh, my Spirits fail me—lead me, or I shall faint,—lead me to the Study, and shew me where ’tis,—for I am able to hear no more of it.
Sir Pat. I will, if you will promise indeed and indeed, not to grieve too much. Going to lead her out.
Enter Wittmore.
Wit. Heaven grant me some kind opportunity to speak with Lucia! hah, she’s here,—and with her the fond Cuckold her Husband.—Death, he has spy’d me, there’s no avoiding him.—
Sir Pat. Oh, are you there, Sir?—Maundy, look to my Lady,—I take it, Sir, you have not dealt well with a Person of my Authority and Gravity. Gropes for the Letter in his pocket.
Wit. So this can be nothing less than my being found out to be no Yorkshire Esq; a Pox of my Geneva Breeding; it must be so, what the Devil shall I say now?
Sir Pat. And this disingenuous dealing does ill become the Person you have represented, I take it.
Wit. Represented! ay, there ’tis, wou’d I were handsomely off o’ this Business; neither Lucia nor Maundy have any intelligence in their demure looks that can instruct a Man.—Why, faith, Sir,—I must confess,—I am to blame—and that I have—a—