(Aside.
Sir Jeal. Pox of your Charms, and Whims for me, if that be all 'tis well enough; there, there, burn it, and I warrant you no Vengeance will follow.
Patch. So, all's right again thus far.
(Aside.
Isab. I would not lose Patch for the World— I'll take courage a little. (aside) Is this Usage for your Daughter, Sir, must my Virtue and Conduct be suspected? For every Trifle, you immure me like some dire Offender here, and deny me all Recreations which my Sex enjoy, and the Custom of the Country and Modesty allow; yet not content with that you make my Confinement more intolerable by your Mistrusts and Jealousies; wou'd I were dead, so I were free from this.
(Weeps.
Sir Jeal. To morrow rids you of this tiresome Load,—Don Diego Babinetto will be here, and then my Care ends and his begins.
Isab. Is he come then! Oh how shall I avoid this hated Marriage?
(Aside.
Enter Servants with Supper.