Amst. What, quarrelling, Men of your Gravity and Profession.
Sir Cred. That is to say, Fools and Knaves: pray, how long is’t since you left [Toping and Napping], for Quacking, good Brother [Cater-tray]?—but let that pass, for I’ll have my Humour, and therefore will quarrel with no Man, and so I drink.— Goes to fill again.
Brun. —But, what’s all this to the Patient, Gentlemen?
Sir Cred. Ay,—the Wine’s all out,—and Quarrels apart, Gentlemen, as you say, what do you think of our Patient? for something I conceive necessary to be said for our Fees.
Fat D. I think that unless he follows our Prescriptions he’s a dead Man.
Sir Cred. Ay, Sir, a dead Man.
Fat D. Please you to write, Sir, you seem the youngest Doctor. To Amst.
Amst. Your Pardon, Sir, I conceive there maybe younger Doctors than I at the Board.
Sir Cred. A fine Punctilio this, when a Man lies a dying Aside. —Sir, you shall excuse me, I have been a Doctor this 7 Years. They shove the Pen and Paper from one to the other.
Amst. I commenc’d at Paris twenty years ago.