L. Fan. Another’s Arms! Oh, call not those hated
Thoughts to my remembrance,
Lest it destroy that kindly Heat within me,
Which thou canst only raise and still maintain.
Sir Pat. Oh Woman! Woman! damn’d dissembling Woman. Aside.
L. Fan. Come, let me lead thee to that Mass of Gold he gave me to be despis’d;
And which I render thee, my lovely Conqueror,
As the first Tribute of my glorious Servitude.
Draw in the Basket which I told you of, and is amongst the Rubbish in the Hall. Exit Wittmore. That which the Slave so many Years was toiling for, I in one moment barter for a Kiss, as Earnest of our future Joys.
Sir Pat. Was ever so prodigal a Harlot? was this the Saint? was this the most tender [Consort] that ever Man had?