Exit Wit.
Sir Pat. Nay, Sir, never detain me, I’ll to my Lady, is this your Demonstration?—Was ever so virtuous a Lady—Well, I’ll to her, and console her poor Heart; ah, the Joy ’twill bring her to see my Resurrection!—I long to surprize her. Going off cross the Stage.
Lean. Hold, Sir, I think she’s coming,—blest sight, and with her Wittmore! Puts Sir Pat. back to the Door.
Enter Lady Fancy and Wittmore.
Sir Pat. Hah, what’s this?
L. Fan. Now, my dear Wittmore, claim thy Rites of Love without controul, without the contradiction of wretched Poverty or Jealousy: Now undisguised thou mayst approach my Bed, and reign o’er all my Pleasures and my Fortunes, of which this Minute I create thee Lord, And thus begin my Homage.— Kisses him.
Sir Pat. Sure ’tis some Fiend! this cannot be my Lady.
Lean. ’Tis something uncivil before your face, Sir, to do this.
Wit. Thou wondrous kind, and wondrous beautiful; that Power that made thee with so many Charms, gave me a Soul fit only to adore ’em; nor wert thou destin’d to another’s Arms, but to be render’d still more fit for mine.
Sir Pat. Hah, is not that Fainlove, Isabella’s Husband? Oh Villain! Villain! I will renounce my Sense and my Religion. Aside.