Enter Lord Whimsicall and others.
L. Whim. Not fit to live, nor dye! but Death thou best deserv'st. (stabs her.
L. Lov. Oh! thou Impotence, only strong in mischief: That feeble aged Arm has reach'd my youthful Heart.
Fast. Slaves, unhand me! Oh! Clemene, Oh!
L. Lov. Let me come at the Dotard, let me cover the Blood-thirsty Man with Livid Gore.
Mar. D'ye hear, Property-Man, be sure some red Ink is handsomely convey'd to Mrs. Knight.
Fast. Move, Dogs; bear her to me, that I may press her close, and keep in Life.
Mar. Strive and struggle now, Mr. Powell; Lord, you scarce stir; hold me, hold me, some of you. Observe, that I may press her close, and keep in Life:, ye see my Breath's almost gone. Oh! if we Poets did but act, as well as write, the Plays wou'd never miscarry.
Fast. Why, there's enow of you, both Males and Females; entertain the Town when you will, I'll resign the Stage with all my Heart.
Mar. And by my hopes of Cataline I'll propose it. But now pray go on.