Wit. Hah—a Letter! what can this mean,—’tis Lucia’s Hand, with Isabella’s Name to’t.—Oh, the dear cunning Creature, to make her Husband the Messenger too.—How, I send one in my room! He reads.
L. Fan. Yes, Sir, you think we do not know of the Appointment you made last Night; but having other Affairs in hand than to keep your Promise, you sent Mr. Knowell in your room,—false Man.
Wit. I send him, Madam! I wou’d have sooner died.
Sir Pat. Sir, as I take it, he cou’d not have known of your Designs and Rendezvous without your Informations.—Were not you to have met my Daughter here to night, Sir?
Wit. Yes, Sir, and I hope ’tis no such great Crime, to desire a little Conversation with the fair Person one loves, and is so soon to marry, which I was hinder’d from doing by the greatest and most unlucky Misfortune that ever arriv’d: [but for my sending him, Madam, credit me], nothing so much amazes me and afflicts me, as to know he was here.
Sir Pat. He speaks well, ingenuously, he does.—Well, Sir, for your Father’s sake, whose Memory I reverence, I will for once forgive you. But let’s have no more Night-works, no more Gambols, I beseech you, good Mr. Fainlove.
Wit. I humbly thank ye, Sir, and do beseech you to tell the dear Creature that writ this, that I love her more than Life or Fortune, and that I wou’d sooner have kill’d the Man that usurp’d my place last Night, than have assisted him.
L. Fan. Were you not false, then?—Now hang me if I do not credit him. Aside.
Sir Pat. Alas, good Lady! how she’s concern’d for my Interest, she’s even jealous for my Daughter. Aside.
Wit. False! charge me not with unprofitable Sins; wou’d I refuse a Blessing, or blaspheme a Power that might undo me? wou’d I die in my full vigorous Health, or live in constant Pain? All this I cou’d, sooner than be untrue.