Isab. Lodwick! What Devil brought that Name to his knowledge?—Canst thou know him, and yet dare hope to marry me?
Wit. We have agreed it, and on these conditions.
Isab. Thou basely injurest him, he cannot do a Deed he ought to blush for: Lodwick do this! Oh, do not credit it,—prithee be just and kind for thy own Honour’s sake; be quickly so, the hasty minutes fly, and will anon make up the fatal Hour that will undo me.
Wit. ’Tis true, within an hour you must submit to Hymen, there’s no avoiding it.
Isab. Nay, then be gone, my poor submissive Prayers, and all that dull Obedience Custom has made us Slaves to.—Do sacrifice me, lead me to the Altar, and see if all the holy mystick Words can conjure from me the consenting Syllable: No, I will not add one word to make the Charm complete, but stand as silent in the inchanting Circle, as if the Priests were raising Devils there.
Enter Lodwick.
Lod. Enough, enough, my charming Isabella, I am confirm’d.
Isab. Lodwick! what good Angel conducted thee hither?
Lod. E’en honest Charles Wittmore here, thy Friend and mine, no Bug-bear Lover he.
Isab. Wittmore! that Friend I’ve often heard thee name? Now some kind mischief on him, he has so frighted me, I scarce can bring my Sense to so much order, to thank him that he loves me not.