Sir _Jeal._ If this Paper has a Meaning I'll find it. Lay the Cloath in my Daughter's Chamber, and bid the Cook send Supper thither presently.

_Butl._ Yes, Sir,--hey day, what's the Matter now?

[_Exit._

Sir _Jeal._ He wants the Eyes of _Argus_, that has a young handsome Daughter in this Town, but my Comfort is, I shall not be troubl'd long with her. He that pretends to rule a Girl once in her Teens, had better be at Sea in a Storm, and would be in less Danger.

_For let him do, or Counsel all he can,_ _She thinks and dreams of nothing else but Man._ [_Exit._

SCENE _Isabinda_'s Chamber, _Isabinda_ and _Patch_.

_Isab._ Are you sure, no Body saw you speak to _Whisper?_

_Patch._ Yes, very sure Madam, but I heard Sir _Jealous_ coming down Stairs, so I clap'd this Letter into my Pocket.

(_Feels for the Letter._

_Isab._ A Letter! give it me quickly.

_Patch._ Bless me! what's become on't--I'm sure I put it-- (_Searching still._

_Isab._ Is it possible, thou could'st be so Careless--Oh! I'm undone for ever if it be lost.

_Patch._ I must have drop'd it upon the Stairs. But why are you so much alarm'd, if the worst happens no body can read it, Madam, nor find out whom it was design'd for.

_Isab._ If it falls into my Father's Hands the very Figure of a Letter will produce ill Consequences. Run and look for it upon the Stairs this Moment.

_Patch._ Nay, I'm sure it can be no where else.-- (_As she's going out of the Door meets the Butler._) How now, what do you want?

_Butl._ My Master order'd me to lay the Cloth here for his Supper.

_Isab._ Ruin'd past Redemption-- (_Aside._

_Patch._ You mistake sure; what shall we do?

_Isab._ I thought he expected Company to Night--Oh! poor _Charles_--Oh!

unfortunate _Isabinda_.

_Butl._ I thought so too Madam, but I suppose he has alter'd his Mind.

(_Lays the Cloth, and Exit._

_Isab._ The Letter is the Cause; this heedless Action has undone me: Fly and fasten the Closet-window, which will give _Charles_ notice to retire. Ha, my Father, oh! Confusion.

_Enter Sir _Jealous_._

Sir _Jeal._ Hold, hold, _Patch_, whither are you going. I'll have no body stir out of the Room till after Supper.

_Patch._ Sir, I was only going to reach your easie Chair--Oh! wretched Accident!

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, a.s.sist 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.

(_s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 s.e.x 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._