--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,