Sir Jeal. I’ll have no body stir out of the Room.  I don’t want my easie Chair.

Isab. What will be the event of this? (Aside.

Sir Jeal. Hark ye Daughter, do you know this Hand?

Isab. As I suspected—­Hand do you call it, Sir?  ’Tis some School-boy’s Scraul.

Patch. Oh!  Invention, thou Chamber-maid’s best Friend, assist me.
    (Aside.

Sir Jeal. Are you sure you don’t understand it?

(Patch. Feels in her Bosom, and shakes her Coats.)

Isab. Do you understand it, Sir?

Sir Jeal. I wish I did.

Isab. Thank Heaven you do not. (aside) Then I know no more of it than you do indeed, Sir.

Patch. Oh Lord, Oh Lord, what have you done, Sir?  Why the Paper is mine, I drop’d it out of my Bosom.
    (Snatching it from him.

Sir Jeal. Ha! yours, Mistress.

Isab. What does she mean by owning it.
    (Aside.

Patch. Yes, Sir, it is.

Sir Jeal. What is it?  Speak.

Patch. Why, Sir, it is a Charm for the Tooth-ach—­I have worn it this seven Year, ’twas given me by an Angel for ought I know, when I was raving with the Pain; for no body knew from whence he came, nor whither he went, he charg’d me never to open it, lest some dire Vengeance befal me, and Heaven knows what will be the Event.  Oh! cruel Misfortune that I should drop it, and you should open it—­If you had not open’d it—­

Isab. Excellent Wench.
    (Aside.

Sir Jeal. Pox of your Charms, and Whims for me, if that be all ’tis well enough; there, there, burn it, and I warrant you no Vengeance will follow.

Patch. So, all’s right again thus far.
    (Aside.

Isab. I would not lose Patch for the World—­I’ll take courage a little. (aside) Is this Usage for your Daughter, Sir, must my Virtue and Conduct be suspected?  For every Trifle, you immure me like some dire Offender here, and deny me all Recreations which my Sex enjoy, and the Custom of the Country and Modesty allow; yet not content with that you make my Confinement more intolerable by your Mistrusts and Jealousies; wou’d I were dead, so I were free from this.
    (Weeps.

Sir Jeal. To morrow rids you of this tiresome Load,—­Don Diego
Babinetto will be here, and then my Care ends and his begins.

Isab. Is he come then!  Oh how shall I avoid this hated Marriage?
    (Aside.

  Enter Servants with Supper.

Sir Jeal. Come will you sit down?

Isab. I can’t eat, Sir.

Patch. No, I dare swear he has given her Supper enough.  I wish I cou’d get into the Closet—­
    (Aside.