Sir Pat. A fiddle on my Daughter, she’s a Chick of the old Cock I profess; I was just such another Wag when young.—But she shall be marry’d to morrow, a good Cloke for her Knavery; therefore come your ways, ye Wag, we’ll take a nap together: good faith, my little Harlot, I mean thee no harm.
L. Fan. No, o’ my Conscience.
Sir Pat. Why then, why then, you little Mungrel?
L. Fan. His precise Worship is as it were disguis’d, the outward Man is over-taken—pray, Sir, lie down, and I’ll come to you presently.
Sir Pat. Away, you Wag, will you? will you?—Catch her there, catch her.
L. Fan. I will indeed,—Death, there’s no getting from him,—pray lie down—and I’ll cover thee close enough I’ll warrant thee.— Aside. He lies down, she covers him.
Had ever Lovers such spiteful luck! hah—surely he sleeps, bless the mistaken Bottle.—Ay, he sleeps,—whilst, Wittmore—
He coming out falls; pulls the Chair down, Sir Patient flings open the Curtain.
Wit. Plague of my over-care, what shall I do?
Sir Pat. What’s that, what Noise is that? let me see, we are not safe; lock up the Doors, what’s the matter? What Thunder-Clap was that?