_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.
_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!