most plentifully. But pray let not
_Isabella_ hear of it; for as I wou'd preserve my Duty to thee, by
communicating all things to thee, so I wou'd conserve my good Opinion
with her.

Sir _Pat._ Ah, what a Blessing I possess in so excellent a Wife! and in
regard I am every day descending to my Grave.--ah--I will no longer hide
from thee the Provision I have made for thee, in case I die.--

L. _Fan._ This is the Musick that I long'd to hear.--Die!--Oh, that
fatal Word will kill me--
[Weeps.
Name it no more, if you'd preserve my Life.

Sir _Pat._ Hah--now cannot I refrain joining with her in affectionate
Tears.--No, but do not weep for me, my excellent Lady, for I have made a
pretty competent Estate for thee. Eight thousand Pounds, which I have
conceal'd in my Study behind the Wainscot on the left hand as you come
in.

L. _Fan._ Oh, tell me not of transitory Wealth, for I'm resolv'd not to
survive thee. Eight thousand Pound say you?--Oh, I cannot endure the
thoughts on't.
[Weeps.

Sir _Pat._ Eight thousand Pounds just, my dearest Lady.

L. _Fan._ Oh, you'll make me desperate in naming it,--is it in Gold or
Silver?

Sir _Pat._ In Gold, my dearest, the most part, the rest in Silver.

L. _Fan._ Good Heavens! why should you take such pleasure in afflicting
me? [Weeps.] --Behind the Wainscot say you?

Sir _Pat._ Behind the Wainscot, prithee be pacified,--thou makest me
lose my greatest Virtue, Moderation, to see thee thus: alas, we're all
born to die.--

L. _Fan._ Again of dying! Uncharitable Man, why do you delight in
tormenting me?--On the left hand, say you as you go in?

Sir _Pat._ On the left hand, my Love: had ever Man such a Wife?

L. _Fan._ Oh, my Spirits fail me--lead me, or I shall faint,--lead me to
the Study, and shew me where 'tis,--for I am able to hear no more of it.

Sir _Pat._ I will, if you will promise indeed and indeed, not to grieve
too much.
[Going to lead her out.

Enter _Wittmore_.

_Wit._ Heaven grant me some kind opportunity to speak with _Lucia_! hah,
she's here,--and with her the fond Cuckold her Husband.--Death, he has
spy'd me, there's no avoiding him.--

Sir _Pat._ Oh, are you there, Sir?--_Maundy_, look to my Lady,--I take
it, Sir, you have not dealt well with a Person of my Authority and
Gravity.
[Gropes for the Letter in his pocket.

_Wit._ So this can be nothing less than my being found out to be no
_Yorkshire_ Esq; a Pox of my _Geneva_ Breeding