Of an insuing Infamy—I hate to cuckold my own Expectations.
L. Fan. Heavens! what can you mean?
Lod. Death, what’s this?—sure ’tis not Virtue in me,—Pray Heaven it be not Impotence!—Where got I this damn’d Honesty, which I never found my self master of till now!—why shou’d it seize me when I had least need on’t?
L. Fan. What ails you? are you mad?—we are safe, and free as Winds let loose to ruffle all the Groves; what is’t delays you then? Soft.
Lod. Pox o’ this thought of Wife, the very Name destroys my appetite.
Oh, with what Vigour I could deal my Love
To some fair leud unknown,
To whom I’d never made a serious Vow!
L. Fan. Tell me the Mystery of this sudden Coldness: have I kept my Husband in Town for this? Nay, persuaded him to be very sick to serve our purpose, and am I thus rewarded—ungrateful Man!
Lod. Hah,—’tis not Isabella’s Voice,—your Husband, say you? Takes hold greedily of her Hand.