nd, 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.

L. _Fan._ Another's Arms! Oh, call not those hated
Thoughts to my remembrance,
Lest it destroy that kindly Heat within me,
Which thou canst only raise and still maintain.

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;
And which I render thee, my lovely Conqueror,
As the first Tribute of my glorious Servitude.

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.

_Wit._ Good morrow to the Day, and next the Gold;
Open the Shrine, that I may see my Saint--
Hail the World's Soul,-- [Opens the Basket, Sir _Cred._ starts up.

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 8000_l._ the Plate and Jewels, Sirrah?

_Wit._ Death, the Dog has eat it.

Sir _Cred._ Eat it! Oh Lord, eat 8000_l._ 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