L. Fan. What an unlucky Accident was this?
Wit. What shall I do, ’tis too late to obscure my self?
L. Fan. He sees you already, through the Trees,—here—keep your distance, your Hat under your Arm; so, be very ceremonious, whilst I settle a demure Countenance.—
Maun. Well, there never came good of Lovers that were given to too much talking; had you been silently kind all this while, you had been willing to have parted by this time.
Enter Sir Patient in a Night-Gown, reading a Bill.
Sir Pat. Hum,—Twelve Purges for this present January—as I take it, good Mr. Doctor, I took but Ten in all December.—By this Rule I am sicker this Month, than I was the last.—And, good Master Apothecary, methinks your Prizes are somewhat too high: at this rate no body wou’d be sick.—Here, Roger, see it paid however,—Ha, hum. Sees ’em, and starts back. What’s here, my Lady Wife entertaining a leud Fellow of the Town? a flaunting Cap and Feather Blade.
L. Fan. Sir Patient cannot now be spoken with. But, Sir, that which I was going just now to say to you, was, that it would be very convenient in my opinion to make your Addresses to Isabella,—’twill give us opportunities. Aside. We Ladies love no Imposition; this is Counsel my Husband perhaps will not like, but I would have all Women chuse their Man, as I have done,—my dear Wittmore. Aside.
Sir Pat. I profess ingenuously an excellent good Lady this of mine, though I do not like her Counsel to the young Man, who I perceive would be a Suitor to my Daughter Isabella.
Wit. Madam, should I follow my inclinations, I should pay my Vows no where but there,—but I am inform’d Sir Patient is a Man so positively resolv’d.—
L. Fan. That you should love his Wife. Aside.