Lod. Where dost thou keep the Ceremony?
Wit. At Sir Patient Fancy’s, my Father-in-law.
Lod. How! Sir Patient Fancy to be your Father-in-law?
Lean. My Uncle?
Wit. He’s fir’d,—’tis his Daughter, Sir, I am to marry.—
Lod. Isabella! Leander, can it be? can she consent to this? and can she love you?
Wit. Why, Sir, what do you see in me, shou’d render me unfit to be belov’d? Angry.
Lod. Marry’d to day! by Heaven, it must not be, Sir. Draws him aside.
Wit. Why, Sir, I hope this is not the kind Lady who was so soft, so sweet and charming last night.
Lod. Hold, Sir,—we yet are Friends.—