Guests, Six Servants to Sir _Patient_, Ballad-Singers and Serenaders.
The Lady _Fancy_, Young Wife to Sir _Patient_, Mrs. _Currer_. The Lady _Knowell_, an affected learned Woman, Mother to _Lodwick_ and _Lucretia_, Mrs. _Gwin_. _Lucretia_, Daughter to the L. _Knowell_, Mrs. _Price_. _Isabella_, Daughter to Sir _Patient Fancy_, Mrs. _Betterton_. _Fanny_, a Child of seven Years old, Daughter to Sir _Patient Fancy_. _Maundy_, the Lady _Fancy’s_ Woman, Mrs. _Gibbs_. _Betty_, Waiting-woman to _Isabella_. _Antic_, Waiting-woman to _Lucretia_. Nurse.
SCENE I. A Room in Lady _Knowell’s_ House.
_Isab._ ‘Tis much I owe to Fortune, my dear _Lucretia_, for being so kind to make us Neighbours, where with Ease we may continually exchange our Souls and Thoughts without the attendance of a Coach, and those other little Formalities that make a Business of a Visit; it looks so like a Journey, I hate it.
_Lucr._ Attendance is that Curse to Greatness that confines the Soul, and spoils good Humour; we are free whilst thus alone, and can laugh at the abominable Fopperies of this Town.
_Isab._ And lament the numberless Impertinences wherewith they continually plague all young Women of Quality.
_Lucr._ Yet these are the precious things our grave Parents still chuse out to make us happy with, and all for a filthy Jointure, the undeniable argument for our Slavery to Fools.
_Isab._ Custom is unkind to our Sex, not to allow us free Choice; but we above all Creatures must be forced to endure the formal Recommendations of a Parent, and the more insupportable Addresses of an odious Fop; whilst the Obedient Daughter stands--thus--with her Hands pinn’d before her, a set Look, few Words, and a Mein that cries--Come marry me: out upon’t.
_Lucr._ I perceive then, whatever your Father designs, you are resolv’d to love your own way.
_Isab._ Thou mayst lay thy Maidenhead upon’t, and be sure of the Misfortune to win.
_Lucr._ My Brother _Lodwick’s_ like to be a happy Man then.
_Isab._ Faith, my dear _Lodwick_ or no body in my heart, and I hope thou art as well resolv’d for my Cousin _Leander_.
_Lucr._ Here’s my Hand upon’t, I am; yet there’s something sticks upon my stomach, which you must know.
_Isab._ Spare the Relation, for I have observ’d of late your Mother to have order’d her Eyes with some softness, her Mouth endeavouring to sweeten it self into Smiles and Dimples, as if she meant to recal Fifteen again, and gave it all to _Leander_, for at him she throws her Darts.