Volume Iv Part 24 (1/2)

_Wit._ Why, sure you do not carry Death in your Embraces, I find no Terror in that lovely Shape, no Daggers in that pretty scornful Look; that Breath that utters so much Anger now, last night was sweet as new-blown Roses are,--and spoke such Words, so tender and so kind.

_Isab._ And canst thou think they were address'd to thee?

_Wit._ No, nor cou'd the Shade of Night hide the Confusion which disorder'd you, at the discovery that I was not he, the blessed he you look'd for.

_Isab._ Leave me, thou hated Object of my Soul.

_Wit._ This will not serve your turn, for I must marry you.

_Isab._ Then thou art a Fool, and drawest thy Ruin on; why, I will hate thee,--hate thee most extremely.

_Wit._ That will not anger me.

_Isab._ Why, I will never let thee touch me, nor kiss my Hand, nor come into my sight.

_Wit._ Are there no other Women kind, fair, and to be purchas'd? he cannot starve for Beauty in this Age, that has a stock to buy.

_Isab._ Why, I will cuckold thee, look to't, I will most d.a.m.nably.

_Wit._ So wou'd you, had you lov'd me, in a year or two; therefore like a kind civil Husband, I've made provision for you, a Friend, and one I dare trust my Honour with,--'tis Mr. _Knowell_, Madam.

_Isab._ _Lodwick!_ What Devil brought that Name to his knowledge?--Canst thou know him, and yet dare hope to marry me?

_Wit._ We have agreed it, and on these conditions.

_Isab._ Thou basely injurest him, he cannot do a Deed he ought to blush for: _Lodwick_ do this! Oh, do not credit it,--prithee be just and kind for thy own Honour's sake; be quickly so, the hasty minutes fly, and will anon make up the fatal Hour that will undo me.

_Wit._ 'Tis true, within an hour you must submit to _Hymen_, there's no avoiding it.

_Isab._ Nay, then be gone, my poor submissive Prayers, and all that dull Obedience Custom has made us Slaves to.--Do sacrifice me, lead me to the Altar, and see if all the holy mystick Words can conjure from me the consenting Syllable: No, I will not add one word to make the Charm complete, but stand as silent in the inchanting Circle, as if the Priests were raising Devils there.

Enter _Lodwick_.

_Lod._ Enough, enough, my charming _Isabella_, I am confirm'd.

_Isab._ _Lodwick!_ what good Angel conducted thee hither?

_Lod._ E'en honest _Charles Wittmore_ here, thy Friend and mine, no Bug-bear Lover he.

_Isab._ _Wittmore!_ that Friend I've often heard thee name? Now some kind mischief on him, he has so frighted me, I scarce can bring my Sense to so much order, to thank him that he loves me not.

_Lod._ Thou shalt defer that payment to more leisure; we're Men of business now. My Mother, knowing of a Consultation of Physicians which your Father has this day appointed to meet at his House, has bribed Monsieur _Turboone_ his _French_ Doctor in Pension, to admit of a Doctor or two of her recommending, who shall amuse him with discourse till we get ourselves married; and to make it the more ridiculous, I will release Sir _Credulous_ from the Basket, I saw it in the Hall as I came through, we shall have need of the Fool.

[Exit _Wittmore_.

Enter _Wittmore_, pulling in the Basket.

_Wit._ 'Twill do well.

_Lod._ Sir _Credulous_, how is't, Man? [Opens the Basket.