That’s a top of my Bill, sweet Sir. Exeunt Doctors.

Fan. Lord, Sir Father, why do you give ’em Money?

Lean. For talking Nonsense this Hour or two upon his Distemper.

Fan. Oh lemini, Sir, they did not talk one word of you, but of Dogs and Horses, and of killing Folks, and of their Wives and Daughters; and when the Wine was all out, they said they wou’d say something for their Fees.

Sir Pat. Say you so!—Knaves, Rogues, Cheats, Murderers! I’ll be reveng’d on ’em all,—I’ll ne’er be sick again,—or if I be, I’ll die honestly of my self without the assistance of such Rascals,—go, get you gone.— To Fan. who goes out.

Lean. A happy resolution! wou’d you wou’d be so kind to your self as to make a trial of your Lady too; and if she prove true, ’twill make some kind of amends for your so long being cozen’d this way.

Sir Pat. I’ll about it, this very minute about it,—give me a Chair.— He sits.

Lean. So, settle your self well, disorder your Hair,—throw away your Cane, Hat and Gloves,—stare, and rowl your Eyes, squeeze your Face into Convulsions,—clutch your Hands, make your Stomach heave, so, very well,—now let me alone for the rest—Oh, help, help, my Lady, my Aunt, for Heavens sake, help,—come all and see him die. Weeps.

Enter Wittmore, Lady Fancy, Isabella, Lucretia, Lady Knowell, Roger, and Nurse.

Wit. Leander, what’s the matter?

Lean. See, Madam, see my Uncle in the Agonies of Death.

L. Fan. My dearest Husband dying, Oh! Weeps.

Lean. How hard he struggles with departing Life!

Isab. Father, dear Father, must I in one day receive a Blessing with so great a Curse? Oh,—he’s just going, Madam.— Weeps.

L. Fan. Let me o’ertake him in the Shades below, why do you hold me, can I live without him? do I dissemble well?— Aside to Wit.

Sir Pat. Not live without me!—do you hear that, Sirrah? Aside to Lean.

Lean. Pray mark the end on’t, Sir,—feign,—feign.—

L. Kno. We left him well, how came he thus o’th’ sudden?

Lean. I fear ’tis an Apoplexy, Madam.

L. Fan. Run, run for his Physician; but do not stir a foot. Aside to Roger.

Look up, and speak but one kind word to me.

Sir Pat. What crys are these that stop me on my way?

L. Fan. They’re mine,—your Lady’s—oh, surely he’ll recover. Aside.

Your most obedient Wife’s.

Sir Pat. My Wife’s, my Heir, my sole Executrix.

L. Fan. Hah, is he in’s Senses? Aside to Wit.

Oh my dear Love, my Life, my Joy, my All, Crys.

Oh, let me go; I will not live without him. Seems to faint in Wittmore’s Arms. All run about her.

Sir Pat. Do ye hear that, Sirrah?

Lean. Have yet a little Patience, die away,—very well—Oh, he’s gone,—quite gone. L. Fan. swoons.

L. Kno. Look to my Lady there, Swoons again.

—Sure she can but counterfeit. Aside.

They all go about her.

Sir Pat. Hah, my Lady dying!

Lean. Sir, I beseech you wait the event. Death! the cunning Devil will dissemble too long and spoil all,—here—carry the dead Corps of my dearest Uncle to his Chamber. Nurse, to your Care I commit him now.

Exeunt with Sir Pat. in a Chair.

All follow but Wittmore; who going the other way, meets Sir Credulous and Lodwick, as before.

Wit. Lodwick! the strangest unexpected News, Sir Patient’s dead!

Sir Cred. How, dead! we have play’d the Physicians to good purpose, i’faith, and kill’d the Man before we administer’d our Physick.

Wit. Egad, I fear so indeed.

Lod. Dead!

Wit. As a Herring, and ’twill be dangerous to keep these habits longer.

Sir Cred. Dangerous! Zoz, Man, we shall all be hang’d, why, our very Bill dispatch’d him, and our Hands are to’t,—Oh, I’ll confess all.— Offers to go.

Lod. Death, Sir, I’ll cut your Throat if you stir.

Sir Cred. Wou’d you have me hang’d for Company, Gentlemen? Oh, where shall I hide my self, or how come at my Clothes?

Lod. We have no time for that; go get you into your Basket again, and lie snug, till I have convey’d you safe away,—or I’ll abandon you.— Aside to him.

’Tis not necessary he shou’d be seen yet, he may spoil Leander’s Plot. Aside.

Sir Cred. Oh, thank ye, dear Lodwick,—let me escape this bout, and if ever the Fool turn Physician again, may he be choak’d with his own Tetrachymagogon.

Wit. Go, haste and undress you, whilst I’ll to Lucia. Exeunt Lod. and Sir Cred.

As Wittmore is going out at one Door, enter Sir Patient and Leander at the other Door.

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.

Sir Pat. Oh Woman! Woman! damn’d dissembling Woman. Aside.

L. Fan. Come, let me lead thee to that Mass of Gold he gave me to be despis’d;

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.

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.

L. Fan. Then I’m not so much oblig’d to thee,—but where’s the Money, the 8000l. the Plate and Jewels, Sirrah?

Wit. Death, the Dog has eat it.

Sir Cred. Eat it! Oh Lord, eat 8000l. Wou’d I might never come out of this Basket alive, if ever I made such a Meal in my Life.

Wit. Ye Dog, you have eat it; and I’ll make ye swallow all the Doses you writ in your Bill, but I’ll have it upward or downward. Aside.

Sir Pat. Hah, one of the Rogues my Doctors.

Sir Cred. Oh, dear Sir, hang me out of the way rather.

Enter Maundy.

Maun. Madam, I have sent away the Basket to Mr. Wittmore’s Lodgings.

L. Fan. You might have sav’d your self that Labour, I now having no more to do, but to bury the stinking Corps of my quandom Cuckold, dismiss his Daughters, and give thee quiet possession of all. To Wit.

Sir Pat. Fair Lady, you’ll take me along with you? Snaps, pulls off his Hat, and comes up to her.

L. Fan. My Husband!—I’m betray’d—

Sir Pat. Husband! I do defy thee, Satan, thou greater Whore than she of Babylon; thou Shame, thou Abomination to thy Sex.

L. Fan. Rail on, whilst I dispose my self to laugh at thee.

Sir Pat. Leander, call all the House in to be a Witness of our Divorce. Exit Lean.

L. Fan. Do, and all the World, and let ’em know the Reason.

Sir Pat. Methinks I find an Inclination to swear,—to curse my self and thee, that I cou’d no better discern thee; nay, I’m so chang’d from what I was, that I think I cou’d even approve of Monarchy and Church-Discipline, I’m so truly convinc’d I have been a Beast and an Ass all my Life.

Enter Lady Knowell, Isabella, Lucretia, Leander, Lodwick, Fanny, &c.

L. Kno. Hah, Sir Patient not dead?

Sir Pat. Ladies and Gentlemen, take notice that I am a Cuckold, a crop-ear’d snivelling Cuckold.

Sir Cred. A Cuckold! sweet Sir, shaw, that’s a small matter in a Man of your Quality.

Sir Pat. And I beg your pardon, Madam, for being angry that you call’d me so. To L. Kno. And yours, dear Isabella, for desiring you to marry my good Friend there Points to Wit. whose name I perceive I was mistaken in:—and yours, Leander, that I wou’d not take your Advice long since: and yours, fair Lady, for believing you honest,—’twas done like a credulous Coxcomb:—and yours, Sir, for taking any of your Tribe for wise, learned or honest. To Sir Credulous.

Wit. Faith, Sir, I deceiv’d ye only to serve my Friend; and, Sir, your Daughter is married to Mr Knowell: your Wife had all my stock of Love before, Sir. Lod. and Isab. kneel.

Sir Pat. Why, God-a-mercy—some comfort that,—God bless ye.—I shall love Disobedience while I live for’t.

Lod. I am glad on’t, Sir, for then I hope you will forgive Leander, who has married my Sister, and not my Mother.

Sir Pat. How! has he served me so?—I’ll make him my Heir for’t, thou hast made a Man of me, my Boy, and, faith, we will be merry,—Fair Lady, you may depart in peace, fair Lady, restoring my Money, my Plate, my Jewels and my Writings, fair Lady.—

L. Fan. You gave me no Money, Sir, prove it if you can; and for your Land, ’twas not settled with this Proviso, if she be honest?

Sir Pat. ’Tis well thou dost confess I am a Cuckold, for I wou’d have it known, fair Lady.

L. Fan. ’Twas to that end I married you, good Alderman.

Sir Pat. I’faith, I think thou didst, Sweet-heart, i’faith, I think thou didst.

Wit. Right, Sir, we have long been Lovers, but want of Fortune made us contrive how to marry her to your good Worship. Many a wealthy Citizen, Sir, has contributed to the maintenance of a younger Brother’s Mistress; and you are not the first Man in Office that has been a Cuckold, Sir.

Sir Pat. Some comfort that too, the Brethren of the Chain cannot laugh at me.

Sir Cred. A very pleasant old Fellow this: faith, I cou’d be very merry with him now, but that I am damnable sad.—Madam, I shall desire to lay the Saddle on the right Horse. To L. Kno.

L. Kno. What mean you, Sir?

Sir Cred. Only, Madam, if I were as some Men are, I should not be as I am.

L. Kno. It may be so, Sir.

Sir Cred. I say no more, but matters are not carried so swimmingly, but I can dive into the meaning on’t. Sir Patient talks this while to Lodwick.

L. Kno. I hate this hypothetical way of arguing, answer me categorically.

Sir Cred. Hypothetical and Categorical! what does she mean now? Aside. —Madam, in plain English, I am made a John-a-Nokes of, Jack-hold-my-staff, a Merry Andrew Doctor, to give Leander time to marry your Daughter; and ’twas therefore I was hoisted up in the Basket;—but as the play says, ’tis well ’tis no worse: I’d rather lose my Mistress than my Life.

Sir Pat. But how came this Rascal Turboon to admit you?

Lod. For the Lucre of our Fees, Sir, which was his recompence.

Sir Pat. I forgive it you, and will turn Spark, they live the merriest Lives—keep some City Mistress, go to Court, and hate all Conventicles.

EPILOGUE,

Spoken by Mrs. Gwin.