Chamber as by the dark._
L. _Fan._ Oh, the agreeable Confusion of a Lover high with expectation
of the approaching Bliss! What Tremblings between Joy and Fear possess
me? All my whole Soul is taken up with _Wittmore_; I’ve no Ideas, no
Thoughts but of _Wittmore_, and sure my Tongue can speak no other
Language, but his Name.--Who’s there?
Enter _Maundy_ leading _Lodwick_.
_Maun._ Madam, ‘tis I, and your expected Lover here--I put him into your
hands, and will wait your Commands in the next Chamber.
[Exit _Maun._
_Lod._ Where are you, my dearest Creature?
L. _Fan._ Here--give me your Hand, I’ll lead you to those Joys we both
so long have sigh’d for.
_Lod._ Hah! to Joys; sure she doth but dally with me. [Aside.
L. _Fan._ Why come you not on, my dear?
_Lod._ And yet, why this Admission, and i’ th’ dark too, if she design’d
me none but virtuous Favours?--What damn’d Temptation’s this?
L. _Fan._ Are you bewitch’d? what is’t that frights you?
_Lod._ I’m fix’d: Death, was ever such a Lover?
Just ready for the highest Joys of Love,
And like a bashful Girl restrain’d by Fear
Of an insuing Infamy--I hate to cuckold my own Expectations.
L. _Fan._ Heavens! what can you mean?
_Lod._ Death, what’s this?--sure ‘tis not Virtue in me,--Pray Heaven it
be not Impotence!--Where got I this damn’d Honesty, which I never found
my self master of till now!--why shou’d it seize me when I had least
need on’t?
L. _Fan._ What ails you? are you mad?--we are safe, and free as Winds
let loose to ruffle all the Groves; what is’t delays you then? Soft.
_Lod._ Pox o’ this thought of Wife, the very Name destroys my appetite.
Oh, with what Vigour I could deal my Love
To some fair leud unknown,
To whom I’d never made a serious Vow!
L. _Fan._ Tell me the Mystery of this sudden Coldness: have I kept my
Husband in Town for this? Nay, persuaded him to be very sick to serve
our purpose, and am I thus rewarded--ungrateful Man!
_Lod._ Hah,--’tis not _Isabella’s_ Voice,--your Husband, say you?
[Takes hold greedily of her Hand.
L. _Fan._ Is safe, from any fear of interrupting us.
Come--these Delays do ill consist with Love
And our Desires; at least if they are equal.
_Lod._ Death, ‘tis the charming Mother!
What lucky Star directed me to night?
O my fair Dissembler, let us haste
To pay the mighty Tributes due to Love.
L. _Fan._ Follow me then with careful Silence,--for _Isabella’s_ Chamber
joins to this, and she may hear us.
_Lod_. Not Flowers grow, nor smooth Streams glide away,
Not absent Lovers sigh, nor breaks the Day,
More silently than I’ll those Joys receive,
Which Love and Darkness do conspire to give.
[Exeunt.