Lod. Thou shalt defer that payment to more leisure; we’re Men of business now. My Mother, knowing of a Consultation of Physicians which your Father has this day appointed to meet at his House, has bribed Monsieur Turboone his French Doctor in Pension, to admit of a Doctor or two of her recommending, who shall amuse him with discourse till we get ourselves married; and to make it the more ridiculous, I will release Sir Credulous from the Basket, I saw it in the Hall as I came through, we shall have need of the Fool.
Exit Wittmore.
Enter Wittmore, pulling in the Basket.
Wit. ’Twill do well.
Lod. Sir Credulous, how is’t, Man? Opens the Basket.
Sir Cred. What, am I not at the Carrier’s yet?—Oh Lodwick, thy Hand, I’m almost poison’d—This Basket wants airing extremely, it smells like an old Lady’s Wedding Gown of my acquaintance.—But what’s the danger past, Man?
Lod. No, but there’s a necessity of your being for some time disguis’d to act a Physician.
Sir Cred. How! a Physician! that I can easily do, for I understand Simples.
Lod. That’s not material, so you can but banter well, be very grave, and put on a starch’d Countenance.
Sir Cred. Banter! what’s that, Man?