Volume Iv Part 31 (1/2)

_Lean._ Hah, _Wittmore_ there! he must not see my Uncle yet.

[Puts Sir _Pat._ back.

[Exit _Wit._

Sir _Pat._ Nay, Sir, never detain me, I'll to my Lady, is this your Demonstration?--Was ever so virtuous a Lady--Well, I'll to her, and console her poor Heart; ah, the Joy 'twill bring her to see my Resurrection!--I long to surprize her.

[Going off cross the Stage.

_Lean._ Hold, Sir, I think she's coming,--blest sight, and with her _Wittmore_!

[Puts Sir _Pat._ back to the Door.

Enter Lady _Fancy_ and _Wittmore_.

Sir _Pat._ Hah, what's this?

L. _Fan._ Now, my dear _Wittmore_, claim thy Rites of Love without controul, without the contradiction of wretched Poverty or Jealousy: Now undisguised thou mayst approach my Bed, and reign o'er all my Pleasures and my Fortunes, of which this Minute I create thee Lord, And thus begin my Homage.-- [Kisses him.

Sir _Pat._ Sure 'tis some Fiend! this cannot be my Lady.

_Lean._ 'Tis something uncivil before your face, Sir, to do this.

_Wit._ Thou wondrous kind, and wondrous beautiful; that Power that made thee with so many Charms, gave me a Soul fit only to adore 'em; nor wert thou destin'd to another's Arms, but to be render'd still more fit for mine.

Sir _Pat._ Hah, is not that _Fainlove_, _Isabella's_ Husband? Oh Villain! Villain! I will renounce my Sense and my Religion.

[Aside.

L. _Fan._ Another's Arms! Oh, call not those hated Thoughts to my remembrance, Lest it destroy that kindly Heat within me, Which thou canst only raise and still maintain.

Sir _Pat._ Oh Woman! Woman! d.a.m.n'd dissembling Woman. [Aside.

L. _Fan._ Come, let me lead thee to that Ma.s.s of Gold he gave me to be despis'd; And which I render thee, my lovely Conqueror, As the first Tribute of my glorious Servitude.

Draw in the Basket which I told you of, and is amongst the Rubbish in the Hall. [Exit _Wittmore_.] That which the Slave so many Years was toiling for, I in one moment barter for a Kiss, as Earnest of our future Joys.

Sir _Pat._ Was ever so prodigal a Harlot? was this the Saint? was this the most tender Consort that ever Man had?

_Lean._ No, in good faith, Sir.

Enter _Wittmore_ pulling in the Basket.

L. _Fan._ This is it, with a direction on't to thee, whither I design'd to send it.

_Wit._ Good morrow to the Day, and next the Gold; Open the Shrine, that I may see my Saint-- Hail the World's Soul,-- [Opens the Basket, Sir _Cred._ starts up.

L. _Fan._ O Heavens! what thing art thou?

Sir _Cred._ O, Pardon, Pardon, sweet Lady, I confess I had a hand in't.

L. _Fan._ In what, thou Slave?--

Sir _Cred._ Killing the good believing Alderman;--but 'twas against my Will.