Sir Jeal. Come will you sit down?
Isab. I can't eat, Sir.
Patch. No, I dare swear he has given her Supper enough. I wish I cou'd get into the Closet—
(Aside.
Sir Jeal. Well, if you can't eat, then give me a Song whilst I do.
Isab. I have such a Cold I can scarce speak, Sir, much less sing. How shall I prevent Charles coming in.
(Aside.
Sir Jeal. I hope you have the Use of your Fingers, Madam. Play a Tune upon your Spinnet, whilst your Woman sings me a Song.
Patch. I'm as much out of Tune as my Lady, if he knew all.
(Aside.