Lean. No, in good faith, Sir.
Enter Wittmore pulling in the Basket.
L. Fan. This is it, with a direction on’t to thee, whither I design’d to send it.
Wit. [Good morrow] to the Day, and next the Gold;
Open the Shrine, that I may see my Saint—
Hail the World’s Soul,— Opens the Basket, Sir Cred. starts up.
L. Fan. O Heavens! what thing art thou?
Sir Cred. O, Pardon, Pardon, sweet Lady, I confess I had a hand in’t.
L. Fan. In what, thou Slave?—
Sir Cred. Killing the good believing Alderman;—but ’twas against my Will.