L. _Fan._ 'Tis that, 'tis that, my Dear, that makes me weep. Alas, I never hear this fatal Noise, but some dear Friend dies.
Sir _Pat._ Hah, dies! Oh, that must be I, ay, ay, Oh.
L. _Fan._ I've heard it, Sir, this two Days, but wou'd not tell you of it.
Sir _Pat._ Hah! heard it these two Days! Oh, what is't a Death-watch?--hah.--
L. _Fan._ Ay, Sir, a Death-watch, a certain Larum Death-watch, a thing that has warn'd our Family this hundred Years, oh,--I'm the most undone Woman!
_Wit._ A Blessing on her for a dear dissembling Jilt--Death and the Devil, will it never cease?
Sir _Pat._ A Death-watch! ah, 'tis so, I've often heard of these things--methinks it sounds as if 'twere under the Bed.-- [Offers to look, she holds him.
L. _Fan._ You think so, Sir, but that 'tis about the Bed is my Grief; it therefore threatens you: Oh wretched Woman!
Sir _Pat._ Ay, ay, I'm too happy in a Wife to live long: Well, I will settle my House at _Hogsdowne_, with the Land about it, which is 500_l._ a Year upon thee, live or die,--do not grieve.-- [Lays himself down.
L. _Fan._ Oh, I never had more Cause; come try to sleep, your Fate may be diverted--whilst I'll to Prayers for your dear Health.-- [Covers him, draws the Curtains.] I have almost run out all my stock of Hypocrisy, and that hated Art now fails me.--Oh all ye Powers that favour distrest Lovers, assist us now, and I'll provide against your future Malice.
[She makes Signs to _Wittmore_, he peeps.
_Wit._ I'm impatient of Freedom, yet so much Happiness as I but now injoy'd without this part of Suffering had made me too blest.--Death and Damnation! what curst luck have I?
[Makes Signs to her to open the Door: whilst he creeps softly from under the Bed to the Table, by which going to raise himself, he pulls down all the Dressing-things: at the same instant Sir _Patient_ leaps from the Bed, and she returns from the Door, and sits on _Wittmore's_ Back as he lies on his Hands and Knees, and makes as if she swooned.
Sir _Pat._ What's the matter? what's the matter? has Satan broke his everlasting Chain, and got loose abroad to plague poor Mortals?
hah--what's the matter?
[Runs to his Lady.
L. _Fan._ Oh, help, I die--I faint--run down, and call for help.
Sir _Pat._ My Lady dying? oh, she's gone, she faints,--what ho, who waits?
[Cries and bauls.
L. _Fan._ Oh, go down and bring me help, the Door is lock'd,--they cannot hear ye,--oh--I go--I die.-- [He opens the Door, and calls help, help.
_Wit._ Damn him! there's no escaping without I kill the Dog.
[From under her, peeping.
L. _Fan._ Lie still, or we are undone.--
Sir _Patient_ returns with _Maundy_.
_Maun._ Hah, discover'd!
Sir _Pat._ Help, help, my Lady dies.
_Maun._ Oh, I perceive how'tis.--Alas, she's dead, quite gone; oh, rub her Temples, Sir.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, I'm undone then,-- [Weeps.] Oh my Dear, my virtuous Lady!
L. _Fan._ Oh, where's my Husband, my dearest Husband--Oh, bring him near me.
Sir _Pat._ I'm here, my excellent Lady.-- [She takes him about the Neck, and raises her self up, gives _Wittmore_ a little kick behind.
_Wit._ Oh the dear lovely Hypocrite, was ever Man so near discovery?-- [Goes out.
Sir _Pat._ Oh, how hard she presses my Head to her Bosom!
_Maun._ Ah, that grasping hard, Sir, is a very bad Sign.
Sir _Pat._ How does my good, my dearest Lady _Fancy_?
L. _Fan._ Something better now, give me more Air,--that dismal Larum Death-watch had almost kill'd me.
Sir _Pat._ Ah precious Creature, how she afflicts her self for me.--Come, let's walk into the Dining-room, 'tis more airy, from thence into my Study, and make thy self Mistress of that Fortune I have design'd thee, thou best of Women.
[Exeunt, leading her.
ACT V.
SCENE I. _A Room in Sir _Patient Fancy's_ House. A Table, and six Chairs._
Enter _Isabella_ reading a Letter, _Betty_ tricking her.
_Isab._ How came you by this Letter?
_Bet._ Miss _Fanny_ receiv'd it by a String from his Window, by which he took up that you writ to him this Morning.
_Isab._ What means this nicety? forbear I say.-- [Puts _Betty_ from her.
_Bet._ You cannot be too fine upon your Wedding-day.
_Isab._ Thou art mistaken, leave me,--whatever he says here to satisfy my Jealousy, I am confirm'd that he was false: yet this assurance to free me from this intended Marriage, makes me resolve to pardon him, however guilty.--
Enter _Wittmore_.
How now! what means this Insolence? How dare you, having so lately made your guilty approaches, venture again into my presence?
_Wit._ Why? Is there any danger, but what's so visible in those fair Eyes?
_Isab._ And there may lie enough, Sir, when they're angry. By what Authority do you make this saucy Visit?
_Wit._ That of a Husband, Madam; I come to congratulate the mighty Joy this Day will bring you.
_Isab._ Thou darst not marry me, there will be danger in't.