Chapter 8

Enter _Isabella_ and _Fanny_ in their Night-gowns.

_Isab._ Well, I have no mind to let this dear mad Devil _Lodwick_ in to night.

_Fan._ Why, Sister, this is not the first Venture you have made of this kind, at this Hour, and in this Place; these Arbours were they tell-tales, cou’d discover many pretty stories of your Loves, and do you think they’ll be less faithful now? pray trust them once again. Oh, I do so love to hear Mr. _Lodwick_ protest, and vow, and swear, and dissemble, and when you don’t believe him, rail at you,--avads, ‘tis the prettiest Man--

_Isab._ I have a strange apprehension of being surpriz’d to night.

_Fan._ I’ll warrant you, I’ll sit on yon Bank of Pinks, and when I hear a Noise I’ll come and tell you; so _Lodwick_ may slip out at the back Gate, and we may be walking up and down as if we meant no harm.

_Isab._ You’ll grow very expert in the Arts of Love, _Fanny_.

_Fan._ When I am big enough I shall do my Endeavour, for I have heard you say, Women were born to no other end than to love: And ‘tis fit I should learn to live and die in my calling.--Come, open the Gate, or you’ll repent it, we shall have my Father marry you within a day or two to that ugly Man that speaks hard Words,--avads, I can’t abide him.

_Isab._ What Noise is that?

_Fan._ Why, ‘tis Mr. _Lodwick_ at the Garden-Door;--let him in whilst I’ll to my flowry Bank, and stand Centinel.-- [Runs off. _Isabella_ opens the Gate.

Enter _Wittmore_.

_Wit._ Who’s there?

_Isab._ Speak low, who shou’d it be but the kind Fool her self, who can deny you nothing but what you dare not take?

_Wit._ Not take! what’s that? hast thou reserves in store? --Oh, come and let me lead thee to thy Bed, Or seat thee on some Bank of softer Flowers, Where I may rifle all thy unknown Store.

_Isab._ How! surely you’re not in earnest?--Do you love me?

_Wit._ Love thee! by thy dear self, all that my Soul adores, I’m all impatient Flame! all over Love! --You do not use to doubt, but since you do, Come, and I’ll satisfy thy obliging Fears, And give thee Proofs how much my Soul is thine, I’ll breathe it all anew into thy Bosom.-- Oh, thou art fit for the transporting Play, All loose and wanton, like the Queen of Love When she descends to meet the Youth in Shades.

_Isab._ And are you, Sir, in earnest? can it be?

_Wit._ That question was severe, what means my Love? What pretty Art is this to blow my Flame? Are you not mine? did we not meet t’enjoy? I came not with more vigorous eager Haste, When our first Sacrifice to Love we paid, Than to perform that Ceremony now. Come do not let the Sacred Fire burn out, Which only was prepar’d for Love’s rich Altar, And this is the divine, dark, silent Minute-- [Goes to lead her off.

_Isab._ Hold, Ravisher, and know this saucy Passion Has render’d back your Interest. Now I hate ye, And my Obedience to my Father’s Will Shall marry me to _Fainlove_, and I’ll despise ye. [Flings from him.

_Wit._ Hah! _Isabella!_ Death, I have made sweet work,--stay, gentle Maid,--she’ll ruin all if she go:--stay--she knew me, and cunningly drew me to this Discovery; I’ll after her and undeceive her. [Runs after her.

_A confused Noise of the Serenade, the_