Sir Pat. Come, my Lady Fancy, shall I wait on you down to Prayer! Sir, you will get your self in order for your Marriage, the great Affair of human Life; I must to my Morning’s Devotion: Come, Madam. She endeavours to make Signs to Wittmore.
L. Fan. Alas, Sir, the [sad] Discourse you lately made me, has so disorder’d me, and given me such a Pain in my Head, I am not able to endure the Psalm-singing.
Sir Pat. This comes of your Weeping; but we’ll omit that part of [th’ Exercise], and have no Psalm sung.
L. Fan. Oh, by no means, Sir, ’twill scandalize the Brethren; for you know a Psalm is not sung so much out of Devotion, as ’tis to give notice of our Zeal and pious Intentions: ’tis a kind of Proclamation to the Neighbourhood, and cannot be omitted.—Oh, how my Head aches!
Wit. He were a damn’d dull Lover, that cou’d not guess what she meant by this. Aside.
Sir Pat. Well, my Lady Fancy, your Ladyship shall be obey’d,—come, Sir, we’ll leave her to her Women. Exit Sir Pat.
As Wittmore goes out, he bows and looks on her; she gives him a Sign.
Wit. That kind Look is a sufficient Invitation. [Exit.]
L. Fan. Maundy, follow ’em down, and bring Wittmore back again.— Exit Maun. There’s now a necessity of our contriving to avoid this Marriage handsomly,—and we shall at least make two Hours our own; I never wish’d well to long Prayers till this Minute.
Enter Wittmore.