Sir Pat. Ay, ay, I’m too happy in a Wife to live long: Well, I will settle my House at [Hogsdowne], with the Land about it, which is 500l. a Year upon thee, live or die,—do not grieve.— Lays himself down.
L. Fan. Oh, I never had more Cause; come try to sleep, your Fate may be diverted—whilst I’ll to Prayers for your dear Health.— Covers him, draws the Curtains. I have almost run out all my stock of Hypocrisy, and that hated Art now fails me.—Oh all ye Powers that favour distrest Lovers, assist us now, and I’ll provide against your future Malice. She makes Signs to Wittmore, he peeps.
Wit. I’m impatient of Freedom, yet so much Happiness as I but now injoy’d without this part of Suffering had made me too blest.—Death and Damnation! what curst luck have I?
Makes Signs to her to open the Door: whilst he creeps softly from under the Bed to the Table, by which going to raise himself, he pulls down all the Dressing-things: at the same instant Sir Patient leaps from the Bed, and she returns from the Door, and sits on Wittmore’s Back as he lies on his Hands and Knees, and makes as if she swooned.
Sir Pat. What’s the matter? what’s the matter? has Satan broke his everlasting Chain, and got loose abroad to plague poor Mortals? hah—what’s the matter? Runs to his Lady.
L. Fan. Oh, help, I die—I faint—run down, and call for help.
Sir Pat. My Lady dying? oh, she’s gone, she faints,—what ho, who waits? Cries and bauls.
L. Fan. Oh, go down and bring me help, the Door is lock’d,—they cannot hear ye,—oh—I go—I& die.— He opens the Door, and calls help, help.
Wit. Damn him! there’s no escaping without I kill the Dog. From under her, peeping.
L. Fan. Lie still, or we are undone.—