L. Fan. Oh, Maundy, he’ll discover all, what shall we do?
Sir Pat. Have what, Sir?
Wit. From my violent Passion for your Daughter—
L. Fan. Oh, I’m all Confusion.—
Wit. Egad, I am i’th wrong, I see by Lucia’s Looks.
Sir Pat. That you have, Sir, you wou’d say, made a Sport and May-game of the Ingagement of your Word; I take it, Mr. Fainlove, ’tis not like the Stock you [come] from.
Wit. Yes, I was like to have spoil’d all, ’sheart, what fine work I had made—but most certainly he has discover’d my Passion for his Wife.—Well, Impudence assist me—I made, Sir, a trifle of my Word, Sir! from whom have you this Intelligence?
Sir Pat. From whom shou’d I, Sir, but from my Daughter Isabella?
Wit. Isabella! The malicious Baggage understood to whom my first Courtship was address’d last Night, and has betray’d me.
Sir Pat. And, Sir, to let you see I utter nothing without Precaution, pray read that Letter.