Isab. There’s no trusting to that my Friend, I doubt your Father will carry his Humour to the Grave, and mine till he sees me settled in Spain.

Char. And can ye then cruelly Resolve to stay till that curs’d Don arrives, and suffer that Youth, Beauty, Fire and Wit, to be sacrific’d to the Arms of a dull Spaniard, to be Immur’d and forbid the Sight of any thing that’s Humane.

Isab. No, when it comes to the Extremity, and no Stratagem can Relieve us, thou shalt List for a Soldier, and I’ll carry thy Knapsack after thee.

Char. Bravely Resolv’d; the World cannot be more Savage than our Parents, and Fortune generally assists the Bold; therefore Consent now:  Why shou’d we put it to a future Hazard? who knows when we shall have another Opportunity?

Isab. Oh, you have your Ladder of Ropes, I suppose, and the Closet Window stands just where it did; and if you han’t forgot to write in Characters, Patch will find a way for our Assignations.  Thus much of the Spanish Contrivance, my Father’s Severity has taught me, I thank him; tho’ I hate the Nation, I admire their Management in these Affairs.

  Enter Patch_._

Patch. Oh, Madam, I see my Master coming up the Street.

Char. Oh the Devil, wou’d I had my Ladder now; I thought you had not expected him till Night; why, why, why, why; what shall I do, Madam?

Isab. Oh, for Heaven’s sake! don’t go that way, you’ll meet him full in the Teeth:  Oh unlucky Moment!—­

Char. Adsheart, can you shut me into no Cupboard, Ram me into no Chest, ha?

Patch. Impossible, Sir, he Searches every Hole in the House.

Isab. Undone for ever! if he sees you, I shall never see you more.

Patch. I have thought on’t:  Run you to your Chamber, Madam; and Sir, come you along with me, I’m certain you may easily get down from the Balcone.

Char. My Life, Adieu—­Lead on, Guide.
    (Exit.

Isab. Heaven preserve him.
    (Exit.

SCENE Changes to the Street.

  Enter Sir Jealous_, with Marplot behind him_._

Sir Jeal. I don’t know what’s the matter; but I have a strong Suspicion, all is not right within; that Fellow’s sauntring about my Door, and his Tale of a Puppy, had the Face of a Lye, methought.  By St. Jago, if I shou’d find a Man in the House, I’d make Mince-Meat of him—­

Marpl. Ah, poor Charles—­ha?  Agad he is old—­I fancy I might bully him, and make Charles have an Opinion of my Courage.

Sir Jeal. My own Key shall let me in; I’ll give them no Warning.
    (Feeling for his Key.

Marpl. What’s that you say, Sir. (Going up to Sir Jealous_._

Sir Jeal. What’s that to you, Sir. (Turns quick upon him.