my little Rascal,--no Prayer to
day--poor _Gogle's_ sick.--Come hither, why, you refractory Baggage you,
come or I shall touze you, ingenuously I shall; tom, tom, or I'll whip
it.

L. _Fan._ Have you forgot your Daughter, Sir, and your Disgrace?

Sir _Pat._ A fiddle on my Daughter, she's a Chick of the old Cock I
profess; I was just such another Wag when young.--But she shall be
marry'd to morrow, a good Cloke for her Knavery; therefore come your
ways, ye Wag, we'll take a nap together: good faith, my little Harlot,
I mean thee no harm.

L. _Fan._ No, o' my Conscience.

Sir _Pat._ Why then, why then, you little Mungrel?

L. _Fan._ His precise Worship is as it were disguis'd, the outward Man
is over-taken--pray, Sir, lie down, and I'll come to you presently.

Sir _Pat._ Away, you Wag, will you? will you?--Catch her there, catch
her.

L. _Fan._ I will indeed,--Death, there's no getting from him,--pray lie
down--and I'll cover thee close enough I'll warrant thee.-- [Aside.
[He lies down, she covers him.
Had ever Lovers such spiteful luck! hah--surely he sleeps, bless the
mistaken Bottle.--Ay, he sleeps,--whilst, _Wittmore_--
[He coming out falls; pulls the Chair down, Sir _Patient_ flings
open the Curtain.

_Wit._ Plague of my over-care, what shall I do?

Sir _Pat._ What's that, what Noise is that? let me see, we are not safe;
lock up the Doors, what's the matter? What Thunder-Clap was that?
[_Wittmore_ runs under the Bed; she runs to Sir _Patient_, and
holds him in his Bed.

L. _Fan._ Pray, Sir, lie still, 'twas I was only going to sit down, and
a sudden Giddiness took me in my Head, which made me fall, and with me
the Chair; there is no danger near ye, Sir--I was just coming to sleep
by you.

Sir _Pat._ Go, you're a flattering Huswife; go, catch her, catch her,
catch her.
[Lies down, she covers him.

L. _Fan._ Oh, how I tremble at the dismal apprehension of being
discover'd! Had I secur'd my self of the eight thousand Pound, I wou'd
not value _Wittmore's_ being seen. But now to be found out, wou'd call
my Wit in question, for 'tis the Fortunate alone are wise.--
[_Wittmore_ peeps from under the Bed; she goes softly to the Door
to open it.

_Wit._ Was ever Man so plagu'd?--hah--what's this?--confound my
tell-tale Watch, the Larum goes, and there's no getting to't to silence
it.--Damn'd Misfortune!
[Sir _Patient_ rises, and flings open the Curtains.

Sir _Pat._ H