oviso, if she be honest?

Sir _Pat._ 'Tis well thou dost confess I am a Cuckold, for I wou'd have
it known, fair Lady.

L. _Fan._ 'Twas to that end I married you, good Alderman.

Sir _Pat._ I'faith, I think thou didst, Sweet-heart, i'faith, I think
thou didst.

_Wit._ Right, Sir, we have long been Lovers, but want of Fortune made us
contrive how to marry her to your good Worship. Many a wealthy Citizen,
Sir, has contributed to the maintenance of a younger Brother's Mistress;
and you are not the first Man in Office that has been a Cuckold, Sir.

Sir _Pat._ Some comfort that too, the Brethren of the Chain cannot laugh
at me.

Sir _Cred._ A very pleasant old Fellow this: faith, I cou'd be very
merry with him now, but that I am damnable sad.--Madam, I shall desire
to lay the Saddle on the right Horse.
[To L. _Kno._

L. _Kno._ What mean you, Sir?

Sir _Cred._ Only, Madam, if I were as some Men are, I should not be as I
am.

L. _Kno._ It may be so, Sir.

Sir _Cred._ I say no more, but matters are not carried so swimmingly,
but I can dive into the meaning on't.
[Sir _Patient_ talks this while to _Lodwick_.

L. _Kno._ I hate this hypothetical way of arguing, answer me
categorically.

Sir _Cred._ Hypothetical and Categorical! what does she mean now?
[Aside.] --Madam, in plain _English_, I am made a _John-a-Nokes_ of,
_Jack-hold-my-staff_, a _Merry Andrew_ Doctor, to give _Leander_ time to
marry your Daughter; and 'twas therefore I was hoisted up in the
Basket;--but as the play says, 'tis well 'tis no worse: I'd rather lose
my Mistress than my Life.

Sir _Pat._ But how came this Rascal _Turboon_ to admit you?

_Lod._ For the Lucre of our Fees, Sir, which was his recompence.

Sir _Pat._ I forgive it you, and will turn Spark, they live the merriest
Lives--keep some City Mistress, go to Court, and hate all Conventicles.

_You see what a fine City-Wife can do
Of the true-breed; instruct her Husband too:
I wish all civil Cuckolds in the Nation
Would take example by my Reformation._

EPILOGUE,

Spoken by Mrs. _Gwin_.

I here and there o'erheard a Coxcomb cry, [Looking about.
Ah, Rot it--'tis a Woman's Comedy,
One, who because she lately chanc'd to please us,
With her damn'd Stuff, will never cease to teeze us.
What has poor Woman done, that she must be
Debar'd from Sense, and sacred Poetry?
Why in this Age has Heaven allow'd you more,
And Women less of Wit than he