Sir Tim. Hah, who’s there?
Lab. What doleful Voice is that?
Sir Tim. What art thou, Friend or Foe? [In a doleful Tone.
Lab. Very direful—why, what the Devil art thou?
Sir Tim. If thou’rt a Friend, approach, approach the wretched.
Lab. Wretched! What art thou, Ghost, Hobgoblin, or walking Spirit? [Reeling in with a Lanthorn in’s Hand.
Sir Tim. Oh, neither, neither, but mere Mortal, Sir Timothy Treat-all, robb’d and bound. [Coming out led by Laboir.
Lab. How, our generous Host!
Sir Tim. How, one of my Lord’s Servants! Alas, alas, how cam’st thou to escape?
Lab. E’en by miracle, Sir; by being drunk, and falling asleep under the Hall-Table with your Worship’s Dog Tory, till just now a Dream of Small-beer wak’d me: and crawling from my Kennel to secure the black Jack, I stumbled upon this Lanthorn, which I took for one, till I found a Candle in’t, which helps me to serve your Worship. [Goes to unbind his Hands.