_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._ 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_.
As _Wittmore_ is going out at one Door, enter Sir _Patient_ and _Leander_ at the other Door.
_Lean._ Hah, _Wittmore_ there! he must not see my Uncle yet. [Puts Sir _Pat._ back. [Exit _Wit._
Sir _Pat._ Nay, Sir, never detain me, I’ll to my Lady, is this your Demonstration?--Was ever so virtuous a Lady--Well, I’ll to her, and console her poor Heart; ah, the Joy ‘twill bring her to see my Resurrection!--I long to surprize her. [Going off cross the Stage.
_Lean._ Hold, Sir, I think she’s coming,--blest sight, and with her _Wittmore_! [Puts Sir _Pat._ back to the Door.
L. _Fan._ Now, my dear _Wittmore_, claim thy Rites of Love without controul, without the contradiction of wretched Poverty or Jealousy: Now undisguised thou mayst approach my Bed, and reign o’er all my Pleasures and my Fortunes, of which this Minute I create thee Lord, And thus begin my Homage.-- [Kisses him.