Sir Patient returns with Maundy.
Maun. Hah, discover’d!
Sir Pat. Help, help, my Lady dies.
Maun. Oh, I perceive how’tis.—Alas, she’s dead, quite gone; oh, rub her Temples, Sir.
Sir Pat. Oh, I’m undone then,— Weeps. Oh my Dear, my virtuous Lady!
L. Fan. Oh, where’s my Husband, my dearest Husband—Oh, bring him near me.
Sir Pat. I’m here, my excellent Lady.—
She takes him about the Neck, and raises her self up, gives Wittmore a little kick behind.
Wit. Oh the dear lovely Hypocrite, was ever Man so near discovery?— Goes out.
Sir Pat. Oh, how hard she presses my Head to her Bosom!