ymen_, there's no
avoiding it.

_Isab._ Nay, then be gone, my poor submissive Prayers, and all that dull
Obedience Custom has made us Slaves to.--Do sacrifice me, lead me to the
Altar, and see if all the holy mystick Words can conjure from me the
consenting Syllable: No, I will not add one word to make the Charm
complete, but stand as silent in the inchanting Circle, as if the
Priests were raising Devils there.

Enter _Lodwick_.

_Lod._ Enough, enough, my charming _Isabella_, I am confirm'd.

_Isab._ _Lodwick!_ what good Angel conducted thee hither?

_Lod._ E'en honest _Charles Wittmore_ here, thy Friend and mine, no
Bug-bear Lover he.

_Isab._ _Wittmore!_ that Friend I've often heard thee name? Now some
kind mischief on him, he has so frighted me, I scarce can bring my Sense
to so much order, to thank him that he loves me not.

_Lod._ Thou shalt defer that payment to more leisure; we're Men of
business now. My Mother, knowing of a Consultation of Physicians which
your Father has this day appointed to meet at his House, has bribed
Monsieur _Turboone_ his _French_ Doctor in Pension, to admit of a Doctor
or two of her recommending, who shall amuse him with discourse till we
get ourselves married; and to make it the more ridiculous, I will
release Sir _Credulous_ from the Basket, I saw it in the Hall as I came
through, we shall have need of the Fool.
[Exit _Wittmore_.

Enter _Wittmore_, pulling in the Basket.

_Wit._ 'Twill do well.

_Lod._ Sir _Credulous_, how is't, Man? [Opens the Basket.

Sir _Cred._ What, am I not at the Carrier's yet?--Oh _Lodwick_, thy
Hand, I'm almost poison'd--This Basket wants airing extremely, it smells
like an old Lady's Wedding Gown of my acquaintance.--But what's the
danger past, Man?

_Lod._ No, but there's a necessity of your being for some time disguis'd
to act a Physician.

Sir _Cred._ How! a Physician! that I can easily do, for I understand
Simples.

_Lod._ That's not material, so you can but banter well, be very grave,
and put on a starch'd Countenance.

Sir _Cred._ Banter! what's that, Man?

_Lod._ Why, Sir, talking very much, and meaning just nothing; be full of
Words without any connection, sense or conclusion. Come in with me, and
I'll instruct you farther.

Sir _Cred._ Pshaw, is that all? say no more on't, I'll do't, let me
alone for Bantering--But this same damn'd Rival--

_Lod._ He's now watching for you without and means to souse upon you;