Wittmore runs under the Bed; she runs to Sir Patient, and holds him in his Bed.
L. Fan. Pray, Sir, lie still, ’twas I was only going to sit down, and a sudden Giddiness took me in my Head, which made me fall, and with me the Chair; there is no danger near ye, Sir—I was just coming to sleep by you.
Sir Pat. Go, you’re a flattering Huswife; go, catch her, catch her, catch her. Lies down, she covers him.
L. Fan. Oh, how I tremble at the dismal apprehension of being discover’d! Had I secur’d my self of the eight thousand Pound, I wou’d not value Wittmore’s being seen. But now to be found out, wou’d call my Wit in question, for ’tis the Fortunate alone are wise.—
Wittmore peeps from under the Bed; she goes softly to the Door to open it.
Wit. Was ever Man so plagu’d?—hah—what’s this?—confound my tell-tale Watch, the Larum goes, and there’s no getting to’t to silence it.—Damn’d Misfortune! Sir Patient rises, and flings open the Curtains.
Sir Pat. Hah, what’s that?
L. Fan. Heavens! what’s the matter? we are destin’d to discovery. She runs to Sir Patient, and leaves the Door still fast.
Sir Pat. What’s that I say, what’s that? let me see, let me see, what ringing’s that, Oh, let me see what ’tis. Strives to get up, she holds him down.
L. Fan. Oh, now I see my Fate’s inevitable! Alas, that ever I was born to see’t. Weeps.