Chapter 16

_Wittmore_ in disorder. A Table, Sword, and Hat._

_Maun._ [Entering.] O Madam, Sir _Patient’s_ coming up.

L. _Fan._ Coming up, say you!

_Maun._ He’s almost on the top of the Stairs, Madam.

_Wit._ What shall I do?

L. _Fan._ Oh, damn him, I know not; if he see thee here after my pretended Illness, he must needs discover why I feign’d.--I have no excuse ready,--this Chamber’s unlucky, there’s no avoiding him; here--step behind the Bed; perhaps he has only forgot his Psalm-Book and will not stay long. [_Wittmore_ runs behind the Bed.

Enter Sir _Patient_.

Sir _Pat._ Oh, oh, pardon this Interruption, my Lady _Fancy_--Oh, I am half killed, my Daughter, my Honour--my Daughter, my Reputation.

L. _Fan._ Good Heavens, Sir, is she dead?

Sir _Pat._ I wou’d she were, her Portion and her Honour would then be sav’d. But oh, I’m sick at Heart, _Maundy_, fetch me the Bottle of _Mirabilis_ in the Closet,--she’s wanton, unchaste.

Enter _Maundy_ with the Bottle.

Oh, I cannot speak it; oh, the Bottle-- [Drinks.] she has lost her Fame, her Shame, her Name.--Oh, [Drinks.] that is not the right Bottle, that with the red Cork [Drinks.]

[Exit _Maundy_.

and is grown a very t’other-end-of-the-Town Creature, a very Apple of _Sodom_, fair without and filthy within, what shall we do with her? she’s lost, undone; hah!

Enter _Maundy_.

let me see, [Drinks.] this is [Drinks.] not as I take it-- [Drinks.] --no, ‘tis not the right,--she’s naught, she’s leud, [Drinks.] --oh, how you vex me-- [Drinks.] This is not the right Bottle yet,-- [Drinks.] No, no, here. [Gives her the Bottle.

_Maun._ You said that with the red Cork, Sir. [Goes out.

Sir _Pat._ I meant the blue;--I know not what I say.-- In fine, my Lady, let’s marry her out of hand, for she is fall’n, fall’n to Perdition; she understands more Wickedness than had she been bred in a profane Nunnery, a Court,

Enter _Maundy_.

or a Play-house, [Drinks.] --therefore let’s marry her instantly, out of hand [Drinks.] Misfortune on Misfortune. [Drinks.] --But Patience is a wonderful Virtue, [Drinks.] --Ha--this is very comfortable,--very consoling--I profess if it were not for these Creatures, ravishing Comforts, sometimes, a Man were a very odd sort of an Animal [Drinks.] But ah--see how all things were ordain’d for the use and comfort of Man. [Drinks.]

L. _Fan._ I like this well: Ah, Sir, ‘tis very true, therefore receive it plentifully and thankfully.

Sir _Pat._ [Drinks.] Ingenuously--it hath made me marvellous lightsome; I profess it hath a very notable Faculty,--very knavish--and as it were, waggish,--but hah, what have we there on the Table? a Sword and Hat? [Sees _Wittmore’s_ Sword and Hat on the Table, which he had forgot.

L. _Fan._ Curse on my Dulness.--Oh, these, Sir, they are Mr. _Fainlove’s_--he being so soon to be marry’d and being straitned for time, sent these to _Maundy_ to be new trim’d with Ribbon, Sir--that’s all. Take ‘em away, you naughty Baggage, must I have Mens things seen in my Chamber?

Sir _Pat._ Nay, nay, be not angry, my little Rogue; I like the young Man’s Frugality well. Go, go your ways, get you gone, and finefy your Knacks and Tranghams, and do your Business--go. [Smiling on _Maundy_, gently beating her with his Hand: she goes out, he bolts the Door after her, and sits down on the Bed’s feet.

L. _Fan._ Heavens, what means he!

Sir _Pat._ Come hither to me, my little Ape’s Face,--Come, come I say--what, must I come fetch you?--Catch her, catch her--catch her, catch her, catch her. [Running after her.

L. _Fan._ Oh, Sir, I am so ill I can hardly stir.

Sir _Pat._ I’ll make ye well, come hither, ye Monky-face, did it, did it, did it? alas for it, a poor silly Fool’s Face, dive it a blow, and I’ll beat it.

L. _Fan._ You neglect your Devotion, Sir.

Sir _Pat._ No, no, no Prayer to day, my little Rascal,--no Prayer to day--poor _Gogle’s_ sick.--Come hither, why, you refractory Baggage you, come or I shall touze you, ingenuously I shall; tom, tom, or I’ll whip it.

L. _Fan._ Have you forgot your Daughter, Sir, and your Disgrace?

Sir _Pat._ A fiddle on my Daughter, she’s a Chick of the old Cock I profess; I was just such another Wag when young.--But she shall be marry’d to morrow, a good Cloke for her Knavery; therefore come your ways, ye Wag, we’ll take a nap together: good faith, my little Harlot, I mean thee no harm.

L. _Fan._ No, o’ my Conscience.

Sir _Pat._ Why then, why then, you little Mungrel?

L. _Fan._ His precise Worship is as it were disguis’d, the outward Man is over-taken--pray, Sir, lie down, and I’ll come to you presently.

Sir _Pat._ Away, you Wag, will you? will you?--Catch her there, catch her.

L. _Fan._ I will indeed,--Death, there’s no getting from him,--pray lie down--and I’ll cover thee close enough I’ll warrant thee.-- [Aside. [He lies down, she covers him. Had ever Lovers such spiteful luck! hah--surely he sleeps, bless the mistaken Bottle.--Ay, he sleeps,--whilst, _Wittmore_-- [He coming out falls; pulls the Chair down, Sir _Patient_ flings open the Curtain.

_Wit._ Plague of my over-care, what shall I do?

Sir _Pat._ What’s that, what Noise is that? let me see, we are not safe; lock up the Doors, what’s the matter? What Thunder-Clap was that? [_Wittmore_ runs under the Bed; she runs to Sir _Patient_, and holds him in his Bed.

L. _Fan._ Pray, Sir, lie still, ‘twas I was only going to sit down, and a sudden Giddiness took me in my Head, which made me fall, and with me the Chair; there is no danger near ye, Sir--I was just coming to sleep by you.

Sir _Pat._ Go, you’re a flattering Huswife; go, catch her, catch her, catch her. [Lies down, she covers him.

L. _Fan._ Oh, how I tremble at the dismal apprehension of being discover’d! Had I secur’d my self of the eight thousand Pound, I wou’d not value _Wittmore’s_ being seen. But now to be found out, wou’d call my Wit in question, for ‘tis the Fortunate alone are wise.-- [_Wittmore_ peeps from under the Bed; she goes softly to the Door to open it.

_Wit._ Was ever Man so plagu’d?--hah--what’s this?--confound my tell-tale Watch, the Larum goes, and there’s no getting to’t to silence it.--Damn’d Misfortune! [Sir _Patient_ rises, and flings open the Curtains.

Sir _Pat._ Hah, what’s that?

L. _Fan._ Heavens! what’s the matter? we are destin’d to discovery. [She runs to Sir _Patient_, and leaves the Door still fast.

Sir _Pat._ What’s that I say, what’s that? let me see, let me see, what ringing’s that, Oh, let me see what ‘tis. [Strives to get up, she holds him down.

L. _Fan._ Oh, now I see my Fate’s inevitable! Alas, that ever I was born to see’t. [Weeps.

_Wit._ Death, she’ll tell him I am here: Nay, he must know’t, a Pox of all Invention and Mechanicks, and he were damn’d that first contriv’d a Watch.

Sir _Pat._ Hah, dost weep?--why dost weep? I say, what Noise is that? what ringing? hah.--

L. _Fan._ ‘Tis that, ‘tis that, my Dear, that makes me weep. Alas, I never hear this fatal Noise, but some dear Friend dies.

Sir _Pat._ Hah, dies! Oh, that must be I, ay, ay, Oh.

L. _Fan._ I’ve heard it, Sir, this two Days, but wou’d not tell you of it.

Sir _Pat._ Hah! heard it these two Days! Oh, what is’t a Death-watch?--hah.--

L. _Fan._ Ay, Sir, a Death-watch, a certain Larum Death-watch, a thing that has warn’d our Family this hundred Years, oh,--I’m the most undone Woman!

_Wit._ A Blessing on her for a dear dissembling Jilt--Death and the Devil, will it never cease?

Sir _Pat._ A Death-watch! ah, ‘tis so, I’ve often heard of these things--methinks it sounds as if ‘twere under the Bed.-- [Offers to look, she holds him.

L. _Fan._ You think so, Sir, but that ‘tis about the Bed is my Grief; it therefore threatens you: Oh wretched Woman!

Sir _Pat._ Ay, ay, I’m too happy in a Wife to live long: Well, I will settle my House at _Hogsdowne_, with the Land about it, which is 500_l._ a Year upon thee, live or die,--do not grieve.-- [Lays himself down.

L. _Fan._ Oh, I never had more Cause; come try to sleep, your Fate may be diverted--whilst I’ll to Prayers for your dear Health.-- [Covers him, draws the Curtains.] I have almost run out all my stock of Hypocrisy, and that hated Art now fails me.--Oh all ye Powers that favour distrest Lovers, assist us now, and I’ll provide against your future Malice. [She makes Signs to _Wittmore_, he peeps.

_Wit._ I’m impatient of Freedom, yet so much Happiness as I but now injoy’d without this part of Suffering had made me too blest.--Death and Damnation! what curst luck have I?

[Makes Signs to her to open the Door: whilst he creeps softly from under the Bed to the Table, by which going to raise himself, he pulls down all the Dressing-things: at the same instant Sir _Patient_ leaps from the Bed, and she returns from the Door, and sits on _Wittmore’s_ Back as he lies on his Hands and Knees, and makes as if she swooned.

Sir _Pat._ What’s the matter? what’s the matter? has Satan broke his everlasting Chain, and got loose abroad to plague poor Mortals? hah--what’s the matter? [Runs to his Lady.

L. _Fan._ Oh, help, I die--I faint--run down, and call for help.

Sir _Pat._ My Lady dying? oh, she’s gone, she faints,--what ho, who waits? [Cries and bauls.

L. _Fan._ Oh, go down and bring me help, the Door is lock’d,--they cannot hear ye,--oh--I go--I die.-- [He opens the Door, and calls help, help.

_Wit._ Damn him! there’s no escaping without I kill the Dog. [From under her, peeping.

L. _Fan._ Lie still, or we are undone.--

Sir _Patient_ returns with _Maundy_.

_Maun._ Hah, discover’d!

Sir _Pat._ Help, help, my Lady dies.

_Maun._ Oh, I perceive how’tis.--Alas, she’s dead, quite gone; oh, rub her Temples, Sir.

Sir _Pat._ Oh, I’m undone then,-- [Weeps.] Oh my Dear, my virtuous Lady!

L. _Fan._ Oh, where’s my Husband, my dearest Husband--Oh, bring him near me.

Sir _Pat._ I’m here, my excellent Lady.-- [She takes him about the Neck, and raises her self up, gives _Wittmore_ a little kick behind.

_Wit._ Oh the dear lovely Hypocrite, was ever Man so near discovery?-- [Goes out.

Sir _Pat._ Oh, how hard she presses my Head to her Bosom!

_Maun._ Ah, that grasping hard, Sir, is a very bad Sign.

Sir _Pat._ How does my good, my dearest Lady _Fancy_?

L. _Fan._ Something better now, give me more Air,--that dismal Larum Death-watch had almost kill’d me.

Sir _Pat._ Ah precious Creature, how she afflicts her self for me.--Come, let’s walk into the Dining-room, ‘tis more airy, from thence into my Study, and make thy self Mistress of that Fortune I have design’d thee, thou best of Women.

[Exeunt, leading her.