That's a top of my Bill, sweet Sir.
[Exeunt Doctors.
_Fan._ Lord, Sir Father, why do you give 'em Money?
_Lean._ For talking Nonsense this Hour or two upon his Distemper.
_Fan._ Oh lemini, Sir, they did not talk one word of you, but of Dogs and Horses, and of killing Folks, and of their Wives and Daughters; and when the Wine was all out, they said they wou'd say something for their Fees.
Sir _Pat._ Say you so!--Knaves, Rogues, Cheats, Murderers! I'll be reveng'd on 'em all,--I'll ne'er be sick again,--or if I be, I'll die honestly of my self without the assistance of such Rascals,--go, get you gone.-- [To _Fan._ who goes out.
_Lean._ A happy resolution! wou'd you wou'd be so kind to your self as to make a trial of your Lady too; and if she prove true, 'twill make some kind of amends for your so long being cozen'd this way.
Sir _Pat._ I'll about it, this very minute about it,--give me a Chair.-- [He sits.
_Lean._ So, settle your self well, disorder your Hair,--throw away your Cane, Hat and Gloves,--stare, and rowl your Eyes, squeeze your Face into Convulsions,--clutch your Hands, make your Stomach heave, so, very well,--now let me alone for the rest--Oh, help, help, my Lady, my Aunt, for Heavens sake, help,--come all and see him die.
[Weeps.
Enter _Wittmore_, Lady _Fancy_, _Isabella_, _Lucretia_, Lady _Knowell_, _Roger_, and _Nurse_.
_Wit._ _Leander_, what's the matter?
_Lean._ See, Madam, see my Uncle in the Agonies of Death.
L. _Fan._ My dearest Husband dying, Oh! [Weeps.
_Lean._ How hard he struggles with departing Life!
_Isab._ Father, dear Father, must I in one day receive a Blessing with so great a Curse? Oh,--he's just going, Madam.-- [Weeps.
L. _Fan._ Let me o'ertake him in the Shades below, why do you hold me, can I live without him? do I dissemble well?-- [Aside to _Wit._
Sir _Pat._ Not live without me!--do you hear that, Sirrah?
[Aside to _Lean._
_Lean._ Pray mark the end on't, Sir,--feign,--feign.--
L. _Kno._ We left him well, how came he thus o'th' sudden?
_Lean._ I fear 'tis an Apoplexy, Madam.
L. _Fan._ Run, run for his Physician; but do not stir a foot.
[Aside to _Roger_.
Look up, and speak but one kind word to me.
Sir _Pat._ What crys are these that stop me on my way?
L. _Fan._ They're mine,--your Lady's--oh, surely he'll recover.
[Aside.
Your most obedient Wife's.
Sir _Pat._ My Wife's, my Heir, my sole Executrix.
L. _Fan._ Hah, is he in's Senses? [Aside to _Wit._ Oh my dear Love, my Life, my Joy, my All, [Crys.
Oh, let me go; I will not live without him.
[Seems to faint in _Wittmore's_ Arms. All run about her.
Sir _Pat._ Do ye hear that, Sirrah?
_Lean._ Have yet a little Patience, die away,--very well--Oh, he's gone,--quite gone.
[L. _Fan._ swoons.
L. _Kno._ Look to my Lady there, [Swoons again.
--Sure she can but counterfeit. [Aside. [They all go about her.
Sir _Pat._ Hah, my Lady dying!
_Lean._ Sir, I beseech you wait the event. Death! the cunning Devil will dissemble too long and spoil all,--here--carry the dead Corps of my dearest Uncle to his Chamber. Nurse, to your Care I commit him now.
[Exeunt with Sir _Pat._ in a Chair.
[All follow but _Wittmore_; who going the other way, meets Sir _Credulous_ and _Lodwick_, as before.
_Wit._ _Lodwick!_ the strangest unexpected News, Sir _Patient's_ dead!
Sir _Cred._ How, dead! we have play'd the Physicians to good purpose, i'faith, and kill'd the Man before we administer'd our Physick.
_Wit._ Egad, I fear so indeed.
_Lod._ Dead!
_Wit._ As a Herring, and 'twill be dangerous to keep these habits longer.
Sir _Cred._ Dangerous! Zoz, Man, we shall all be hang'd, why, our very Bill dispatch'd him, and our Hands are to't,--Oh, I'll confess all.-- [Offers to go.
_Lod._ Death, Sir, I'll cut your Throat if you stir.
Sir _Cred._ Wou'd you have me hang'd for Company, Gentlemen? Oh, where shall I hide my self, or how come at my Clothes?
_Lod._ We have no time for that; go get you into your Basket again, and lie snug, till I have convey'd you safe away,--or I'll abandon you.-- [Aside to him.
'Tis not necessary he shou'd be seen yet, he may spoil _Leander's_ Plot.
[Aside.
Sir _Cred._ Oh, thank ye, dear _Lodwick_,--let me escape this bout, and if ever the Fool turn Physician again, may he be choak'd with his own _Tetrachymagogon_.
_Wit._ Go, haste and undress you, whilst I'll to _Lucia_.
[Exeunt _Lod._ and Sir _Cred._
As _Wittmore_ is going out at one Door, enter Sir _Patient_ and _Leander_ at the other Door.