L. _Kno._ Rise, Fool.

_Lucr._ Never till you have given me back _Leander_, or leave to live no
more.--Pray kill me, Madam; and the same Flowers that deck your nuptial
Bed,
Shall serve to strow my Herse, when I shall lie
A dead cold Witness of your Tyranny.

L. _Kno._ Rise; I still design'd him yours.--I saw with pleasure, Sir,
your reclination from my Addresses.--I have proved both your Passions,
and 'twere unkind not to crown 'em with the due Praemium of each others
Merits.
[Gives her to _Lean._

_Lean._ Can Heaven and you agree to be so bountiful?

L. _Kno._ Be not amaz'd at this turn, _Rotat omne fatum_.--But no
more,--keep still that mask of Love we first put on, till you have
gain'd the Writings: for I have no Joy beyond cheating that filthy Uncle
of thine.--_Lucretia_, wipe your Eyes, and prepare for _Hymen_, the Hour
draws near. _Thalessio_, _Thalessio_, as the _Romans_ cry'd.

_Lucr._ May you still be admir'd as you deserve!

Enter Sir _Patient_ with Writings, and _Isabella_.

Sir _Pat._ How, Madam _Lucretia_, and in Tears?

L. _Kno._ A little disgusted, Sir, with her Father-in-law, Sir.

Sir _Pat._ Oh, is that all? hold up thy Head, Sweet-heart, thy turn's
next.--Here, Madam, I surrender my Title, with these Writings, and with
'em my Joy, my Life, my Darling, my _Leander_.--Now let's away, where's
Mr. _Fainlove_?

_Isab._ He's but stept into _Cheapside_, to fit the Ring, Sir, and will
be here immediately.

Sir _Pat._ I have Business anon about eleven of the Clock,
a Consultation of Physicians, to confer about this Carcase of mine.

_Lean._ Physicians, Sir, what to do?

Sir _Pat._ To do! why, to take their advice, Sir, and to follow it.

_Lean._ For what, I beseech you, Sir?

Sir _Pat._ Why, Sir, for my Health.

_Lean._ I believe you are not sick, Sir, unless they make you so.

Sir _Pat._ They make me so!--Do you hear him, Madam--Am not I sick, Sir?
not I, Sir _Patient Fancy_, sick?

L. _Kno._ He'll destroy my Design.--How, Mr. _Fancy_, not Sir _Patient_
sick? or must he be incinerated before you'll credit it?

Sir _Pat._ Ay, Madam, I want but dying to undeceive him, and yet I am
not sick!

_Lean._ Sir, I love your Life, and wou'd not have you die with Fancy and
Conceit.--

Sir _Pat._ Fancy and Conceit! do but observe him, Madam,--what do you
mean, Sir, by Fancy and Conceit?

L. _Kno._ He'll ruin all;--why, Sir,--he means--

Sir _Pat._ Nay, let him alone, let him al