a Bushel. [Aside.

Sir _Pat._ Oh, oh,--I'm a dead Man, have me to Bed, I die away, undress
me instantly, send for my Physicians, I'm poison'd, my Bowels burn,
I have within an _AEtna_, my Brains run round, Nature within me reels.
[They carry him out in a Chair.

_Wit._ And all the drunken Universe does run on Wheels, ha, ha, ha.

Ah, my dear Creature, how finely thou hast brought him to his Journy's
end!

L. _Fan._ There was no other way but this to have secur'd my Happiness
with thee; there needs no more than that you come anon to the Garden
Back-gate, where you shall find admittance;--Sir _Patient_ is like to
lie alone to night.

_Wit._ Till then 'twill be a thousand Ages.

L. _Fan._ At Games of Love Husbands to cheat is fair,
'Tis the Gallant we play with on the square.

[Exeunt severally.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

_Scene draws off to a room in Sir _Patient Fancy's_ house, and discovers
Lady _Knowell_, _Isabella_, _Lucretia_, _Lodwick_, _Leander_,
_Wittmore_, Sir _Credulous_, other Men and Women, as going to dance._

L. _Kno._ Come, one Dance more, and then I think we shall have
sufficiently teaz'd the Alderman, and 'twill be time to part.--Sir
_Credulous_, where's your Mistress?

Sir _Cred._ Within a Mile of an Oak, dear Madam, I'll warrant
you.--Well, I protest and vow, sweet Lady, you dance most nobly,--Why,
you dance--like--like a--like a hasty Pudding, before _Jove_.
[They dance some Antick, or Rustick Antick. _Lodwick_ speaking to
_Isabella_.

SONG made by a Gentleman.

_Sitting by yonder River side,
_Parthenia_ thus to _Cloe_ cry'd,
Whilst from the fair Nymph's Eyes apace
Another Stream o'er-flow'd her beauteous Face;
Ah happy Nymph, said she, that can
So little value that false Creature, Man._

_Oft the perfidious things will cry,
Alas they burn, they bleed, they die;
But if they're absent half a Day,
Nay, let 'em be but one poor Hour away,
No more they die, no more complain,
But like unconstant Wretches live again._

_Lod._ Well, have you consider'd of that Business yet, _Isabella_?

_Isab._ What business?

_Lod._ Of giving me admittance to night.

_Isab._ And may I trust your honesty?

_Lod._ Oh, doubt me not, my mother's resolv'd it shall be a match
between you and I, and that very consideration will secure thee:
besides, who would first sully the Linen they mean to put on?

_Isab._ Away, here's my Mot