Wit. Death, she’ll tell him I am here: Nay, he must know’t, a Pox of all Invention and Mechanicks, and he were damn’d that first contriv’d a Watch.
Sir Pat. Hah, dost weep?—why dost weep? I say, what Noise is that? what ringing? hah.—
L. Fan. ’Tis that, ’tis that, my Dear, that makes me weep. Alas, I never hear this fatal Noise, but some dear Friend dies.
Sir Pat. Hah, dies! Oh, that must be I, ay, ay, Oh.
L. Fan. I’ve heard it, Sir, this two Days, but wou’d not tell you of it.
Sir Pat. Hah! heard it these two Days! Oh, what is’t a Death-watch?—hah.—
L. Fan. Ay, Sir, a Death-watch, a certain Larum Death-watch, a thing that has warn’d our Family this hundred Years, oh,—I’m the most undone Woman!
Wit. A Blessing on her for a dear dissembling Jilt—Death and the Devil, will it never cease?
Sir Pat. A Death-watch! ah, ’tis so, I’ve often heard of these things—methinks it sounds as if ’twere under the Bed.— Offers to look, she holds him.
L. Fan. You think so, Sir, but that ’tis about the Bed is my Grief; it therefore threatens you: Oh wretched Woman!