_Hugh._ Sir here is a patient in a chair.
_Foss._ Doctor Lubomirski, let me conduct you into my study, where we will farther discuss the wonderful virtues of this liquor. Tell the patient I will attend him this instant.
Enter UNDERPLOT in a chair like a sick man.
_Hugh._ The doctor will wait upon you immediately.
_Underp._ I dogg'd Plotwell to this door in a doctor's habit. If he has admittance as a doctor, why not I as a patient? Now for a lucky decision of our wager! If I can't succeed myself, I will at least spoil his intrigue.
_Underp._ Ah! ah! have you no place? Ah! where can I repose a little? I was taken suddenly. Ah! ah! 'tis happy I was so near the house of an eminent physician.
_Underp._ If I lay a few minutes cover'd up warm in a bed, I believe I might recover.
[_Fossile feels his pulse. Plotwell peeps._
_Plot._ Underplot in disguise! I'll be his doctor, and cure him of these frolicks.
_Foss._ What are your symptoms, Sir? a very tempestuous pulse, I profess!
_Foss._ All this proceeds from the fumes of the kitchen, the stomachic digester wants reparation for the better concoction of your aliment: But, Sir, is your pain pungitive, tensive, gravitive, or pulsatory?
_Foss._ Impossible Sir; but I have an eminent physician now in the house, he shall consult. Doctor Lubomirski, here is a person in a most violent cephalalgy, a terrible case!
_Foss._ Feel his pulse. [_Plotwell feels it._] You feel it, Sir, strong, hard and labouring.
_Foss._ Feel his belly, Sir; a great tension and heat of the abdomen--A hearty man, his muscles are torose; how soon are the strongest humbled by diseases! let us retire, and consult.
_Sars._ My mistress approves your design, bear it out bravely, perhaps I shall have a sudden opportunity of conveying you into her bed-chamber, counterfeit a fainting fit and rely upon me.
_Underp._ As yet I find I am undiscover'd by Plotwell; neither is his intrigue in such forwardness as mine, though he made a fair push for it before me.
_Plot._ My opinion is for de strong vomit.
_Plot._ Make de searrification, give me de lancet, me will do it myself, and after dat will put de blister to de sole of de feet,
_Foss._ Your dolor proceeds from a frigid _intemperies_ of the brain, a strong disease! the enemy has invaded the very citadel of your microcosm, the magazine of your vital functions; he has set down before it; yet there seems to be a good garrison of vital spirits, and we don't question to be able to defend it.