L. Whim. Oh! 'tis gone! 'tis gone! my Chariot! Oh, my Chariot!
Fast. See, Clemene, see, thy Adorer comes! guiltily fond, and pressing after thee. (Dies.
L. Whim. Have you all lookt below? is there no news of this inestimable Chariot?
Serv. No, my Lord; and here your Son is dead.
L. Whim. Why dost thou tell me of my Son, the blind work of Chance, the sport of Darkness, which produc'd a Monster? I've lost an Engine, the labour'd care of half a hundred Years. It is gone! I shall go mad.
Mar. Good Mr. What-d'-call-'um, this last Speech to the highest pitch of raving.
L. Whim. Ha! the Sun has got it; I see the glorious Tract: But I will mount and yet recover it: The covetous Planet shall not dare to keep it for the use of his Paramour. Bear me, ye Winds, upon your blustring Wings; for I am light as Air, and mad as rowling Tempests.
(Exit
Mar. Is not this passion well exprest?
Mr. Awd. 'Tis indeed all mad Stuff.