Miran. (Coming out of a Chair.) Let the Chair wait:  My Servant, That dog’d Sir George said he was in the Park.

  Enter Patch_._

Ha!  Mis Patch alone, did not you tell me you had contriv’d a way to bring Isabinda to the Park?

Patch. Oh, Madam, your Ladiship can’t imagine what a wretched Disappointment we have met with:  Just as I had fetch’d a Suit of my Cloaths for a Disguise:  comes my old Master into his Closet, which is right against her Chamber Door; this struck us into a terrible Fright—­At length I put on a Grave Face, and ask’d him if he was at leisure for his Chocolate, in hopes to draw him out of his Hole; but he snap’d my Nose off, No, I shall be busie here this two Hours; at which my poor Mistress seeing no way of Escape, order’d me to wait on your Ladiship with the sad Relation.

Miran. Unhappy Isabinda! Was ever any thing so unaccountable as the Humour of Sir Jealousie Traffick.

Patch. Oh, Madam, it’s his living so long in Spain, he vows he’ll spend half his Estate, but he’ll be a Parliament-Man, on purpose to bring in a Bill for Women to wear Veils, and the other odious Spanish Customs—­He swears it is the height of Impudence to have a Woman seen Bare-fac’d even at Church, and scarce believes there’s a true begotten Child in the City.

Miran. Ha, ha, ha, how the old Fool torments himself!  Suppose he could introduce his rigid Rules—­does he think we cou’d not match them in Contrivance?  No, no; Let the Tyrant Man make what Laws he will, if there’s a Woman under the Government, I warrant she finds a way to break ’em:  Is his Mind set upon the Spaniard for his Son-in-law still?

Patch. Ay, and he expects him by the next Fleet, which drives his Daughter to Melancholy and Despair:  But, Madam, I find you retain the same gay, cheerful Spirit you had, when I waited on your Ladiship.—­My Lady is mighty good-humour’d too, and I have found a way to make Sir Jealousie believe I am wholly in his Interest, when my real Design is to serve her; he makes me her Jaylor, and I set her at Liberty.

Miran. I know thy Prolifick Brain wou’d be of singular Service to her, or I had not parted with thee to her Father.

Patch. But, Madam, the Report is that you are going to marry your Guardian.

Miran. It is necessary such a Report shou’d be, Patch.

Patch. But is it true, Madam?

Miran. That’s not absolutely necessary.

Patch. I thought it was only the old Strain, coaxing him still for your own, and railing at all the young Fellows about Town; in my Mind now, you are as ill plagu’d with your Guardian, Madam, as my Lady is with her Father.

Miran. No, I have Liberty, Wench, that she wants; what would she give now to be in this dissabilee in the—­open Air, nay more, in pursuit of the young Fellow she likes; for that’s my Case, I assure thee.