L. Fan. Oh, what’s the matter with my Love? what, do you mean to murder him? oh, lead him instantly back to his Bed.
Sir Pat. Oh, oh, no, I’ll lie here,—put me to bed, oh, I faint,—my Chamber’s possest with twenty thousand Evil Spirits.
L. Fan. Possest! what sickly Fancy’s this?
Sir Pat. Ah, the House is beset, surrounded and confounded with profane tinkling, with Popish Horn-Pipes, and Jesuitical Cymbals, more Antichristian and Abominable than Organs, or Anthems.
Nurse. Yea verily, and surely it is the spawn of Cathedral Instruments plaid on by Babylonish Minstrels, only to disturb the Brethren.
Sir Pat. Ay, ’tis so, call up my Servants, and let them be first chastiz’d and then hang’d; accuse ’em for French Papishes, that had a design to fire the City, or any thing:—oh, I shall die—lead me gently to this Bed.
L. Fan. To hinder him will discover all:—stay, Sir.—
Sir Pat. Hah, my Lady turn’d rebellious!—put me to Bed I say;— Throws himself forward to the Bed. —hah—what’s here?—what are thou,—a Man,—hah, a Man, Treason! betray’d! my Bed’s defil’d, my Lady polluted, and I am cornuted; oh thou vile Serpent of my Bosom!
She stands with her Face towards the Stage in signs of fear.
Isab. A Man, and in my virtuous Lady Mother’s Chamber! how fortunate was I to light on this discovery!