Wit. Has he no mutinous Cabal, nor Coffee-houses, where he goes religiously to consult the Welfare of the Nation?
L. Fan. His imagin’d Sickness has made this their Rendesvouz.
Wit. When he goes to his blind Devotion, cannot you pretend to be sick? that may give us at least two or three opportunities to begin with.
L. Fan. Oh! then I should be plagu’d with continual Physick and Extempore Prayer till I were sick indeed.
Wit. Damn the humorous Coxcomb and all his Family, what shall we do?
L. Fan. Not all, for he has a Daughter that has good Humour, Wit, and Beauty enough to save her,—stay—that has jogg’d a Thought, as the Learned say, which must jog on, till the motion have produc’d something worth my thinking.—
Enter Roger running.
Maun. Ad’s me, here’s danger near, our Scout comes in such haste.
L. Fan. Roger, what’s the matter?
Rog. My Master, Madam, is risen from sleep, and is come in to the Garden.—See, Madam, he’s here.