L. Fan. Curse on my Dulness.—Oh, these, Sir, they are Mr. Fainlove’s—he being so soon to be marry’d and being straitned for time, sent these to Maundy to be new trim’d with Ribbon, Sir—that’s all. Take ’em away, you naughty Baggage, must I have Mens things seen in my Chamber?
Sir Pat. Nay, nay, be not angry, my little Rogue; I like the young Man’s Frugality well. Go, go your ways, get you gone, and finefy your Knacks and [Tranghams], and do your Business—go.
Smiling on Maundy, gently beating her with his Hand: she goes out, he bolts the Door after her, and sits down on the Bed’s feet.
L. Fan. Heavens, what means he!
Sir Pat. Come hither to me, my little Ape’s Face,—Come, come I say—what, must I come fetch you?—Catch her, catch her—catch her, catch her, catch her. Running after her.
L. Fan. Oh, Sir, I am so ill I can hardly stir.
Sir Pat. I’ll make ye well, come hither, ye Monky-face, did it, did it, did it? alas for it, a poor silly Fool’s Face, dive it a blow, and I’ll beat it.
L. Fan. You neglect your Devotion, Sir.
Sir Pat. No, no, no Prayer to day, my little Rascal,—no Prayer to day—poor Gogle’s sick.—Come hither, why, you refractory Baggage you, come or I shall touze you, ingenuously I shall; tom, tom, or I’ll whip it.
L. Fan. Have you forgot your Daughter, Sir, and your Disgrace?