Isab. Pardon me, Sir, ’tis your own Ridiculous Humour draws you into these Vexations, and gives every Fool pretence to banter you.

Sir Jeal. No, ’tis your Idle Conduct, your Coquetish Flurting into the Balcone—­Oh with what Joy shall I resign thee into the Arms of Don Diego Babinetto!

Isab. And with what Industry shall I avoid him!
    (Aside.

Sir Jeal. Certainly that Rogue had a Message from some body or other; but being baulk’d by my coming, popt that Sham upon me.  Come along, ye Sots, let’s see if we can find the Dog again. Patch, lock her up; D’ye hear?
    (Exit with Servants.

Patch. Yes, Sir—­ay, walk till your Heels ake, you’ll find no Body, I promise you.

Isab. Who cou’d that Scout be, which he talks of?

Patch. Nay, I can’t imagine, without it was Whisper.

Isab. Well, dear Patch, let’s employ all our Thoughts how to escape this horrid Don Diego, my very Heart sinks at his Terrible Name.

Patch. Fear not, Madam, Don Carlo shall be the Man, or I’ll lose the Reputation of Contriving, and then what’s a Chambermaid good for?

Isab. Say’st thou so, my Girl:  Then—­
  Let Dad be Jealous, multiply his Cares,
  While Love instructs me to avoid the Snares;
  I’ll, spight of all his Spanish_ Caution, show
  How much for Love a British Maid can do._
    (Exit.

SCENE Sir Francis Gripe_’s House._

Sir Francis_ and Miranda meeting._

Miran. Well, Gardee, how did I perform my Dumb Scene?

Sir Fran. To Admiration—­Thou dear little Rogue, let me buss thee for it:  Nay, adod, I will, Chargee, so muzle, and tuzle, and hug thee; I will, I faith, I will.
    (Hugging and Kissing her.

Miran. Nay, Gardee, don’t be so lavish; who wou’d Ride Post, when the Journey lasts for Life?

Sir Fran. Ah wag, ah wag—­I’ll buss thee agen for that.

Miran. Faugh! how he stinks of Tobacco! what a delicate Bedfellow I shou’d have!
    (Aside.

Sir Fran. Oh I’m Transported!  When, when, my Dear, wilt thou Convince the World of thy Happy Day? when shall we marry, ha?

Miran. There’s nothing wanting but your Consent, Sir Francis.

Sir Fran. My Consent! what do’s my Charmer mean?

Miran. Nay, ’tis only a Whim:  But I’ll have every thing according to form—­Therefore when you sign an Authentick Paper, drawn up by an able Lawyer, that I have your Leave to marry, the next Day makes me yours, Gardee.

Sir Fran. Ha, ha, ha, a Whim indeed! why is it not Demonstration I give my Leave when I marry thee.

Miran. Not for your Reputation, Gardee; the malicious World will be apt to say, you trick’d me into Marriage, and so take the Merit from my Choice.  Now I will have the Act my own, to let the idle Fops see how much I prefer a Man loaded with Years and Wisdom.