Sir Pat. I wish you were, since you are so fond of being rail’d at.—If I were able to beat him, I would be much angry,—but Patience is a Virtue, and I will into the Country. Aside.
Sir Cred. ’Tis all one case to me, dear Sir,—but I should have the pleasure of railing again, cum privilegio; I love fighting with those pointless Weapons.—Zoz, Sir, you know if we Men of Quality fall out— (for you are a Knight I take it) why, there comes a Challenge upon it, and ten to one some body or other is run through the Gills; why, a Pox on’t, I say, this is very damnable, give me Poet’s Licence.—
L. Fan. Take him off in pity. To Leander.
Lod. Indeed Railing is a Coin only current among the Poets, Sir Credulous.
Sir Pat. Oh blest Deliverance!—what a profane Wretch is here, and what a leud World we live in—Oh London, London, how thou aboundest in Iniquity! thy young Men are debauch’d, thy Virgins defloured, and thy Matrons all turn’d Bauds! My Lady Fancy, this is not Company for you, I take it, let us fly from this vexation of Spirit, on the never-failing Wings of Discretion.— Going to lead Lady Fancy off,—the Lady Knowell speaking to Isabella all this while.
L. Kno. How! marry thee to such a Fop, say’st thou? Oh egregious!—as thou lovest Lodwick, let him not know his Name, it will be dangerous, let me alone to evade it.
Isab. I know his fiery Temper too well to trust him with the secret.
L. Kno. Hark ye, Sir, and do you intend to do this horrible thing?—
Sir Pat. What thing, my Lady Knowell?
L. Kno. Why, to marry your Daughter, Sir.