Maun. [Entering.] O Madam, Sir Patient’s coming up.
L. Fan. Coming up, say you!
Maun. He’s almost on the top of the Stairs, Madam.
Wit. What shall I do?
L. Fan. Oh, damn him, I know not; if he see thee here after my pretended Illness, he must needs discover why I feign’d.—I have no excuse ready,—this Chamber’s unlucky, there’s no avoiding him; here—step behind the Bed; perhaps he has only forgot his Psalm-Book and will not stay long. Wittmore runs behind the Bed.
Enter Sir Patient.
Sir Pat. Oh, oh, pardon this Interruption, my Lady Fancy—Oh, I am half killed, my Daughter, my Honour—my Daughter, my Reputation.
L. Fan. Good Heavens, Sir, is she dead?
Sir Pat. I wou’d she were, her Portion and her Honour would then be sav’d. But oh, I’m sick at Heart, Maundy, fetch me the Bottle of [Mirabilis] in the Closet,—she’s wanton, unchaste.
Enter Maundy with the Bottle.