Sir Cred. A Song! hang’t, ’tis but rummaging the Play-Books, stealing thence is lawful Prize—Well, Sir, your Servant. Exit.
Enter Leander.
Lod. I hope ’twill be ridiculous enough, and then the Devil’s in’t if it do not do his Business with my Mother, for she hates all impertinent Noises but what she makes herself. She’s now going to make a Visit to your Uncle, purposely to give me an opportunity to Isabella.
Lean. And I’m ingag’d to wait on her thither, she designs to carry the Fiddles too; he’s mad enough already, but such a Visit will fit him for Bedlam.
Lod. No matter, for you have all a leud Hand with him; between his continual imaginary Sickness, and perpetual Physic, a Man might take more Pleasure in an Hospital. What the Devil did he marry a young Wife for? and they say a handsome Creature too.
Lean. To keep up his Title of Cuckold I think, for she has Beauty enough for Temptation, and no doubt makes the right use on’t: wou’d I cou’d know it, that I might prevent her cheating my Uncle longer to my undoing.
Lod. She’ll be cunning enough for that, if she have Wit: but now thou talk’st of Intrigues, when didst see Wittmore? that Rogue has some lucky Haunt which we must find out.—But my Mother expects your attendance; I’ll go seek my Sister, and make all the Interest there I can for you, whilst you pay me in the same Coin to Isabella. Adieu.
Lean. Trust my Friendship.—