Fan. Lord, Sir Father, why do you give ’em Money?
Lean. For talking Nonsense this Hour or two upon his Distemper.
Fan. Oh lemini, Sir, they did not talk one word of you, but of Dogs and Horses, and of killing Folks, and of their Wives and Daughters; and when the Wine was all out, they said they wou’d say something for their Fees.
Sir Pat. Say you so!—Knaves, Rogues, Cheats, Murderers! I’ll be reveng’d on ’em all,—I’ll ne’er be sick again,—or if I be, I’ll die honestly of my self without the assistance of such Rascals,—go, get you gone.— To Fan. who goes out.
Lean. A happy resolution! wou’d you wou’d be so kind to your self as to make a trial of your Lady too; and if she prove true, ’twill make some kind of amends for your so long being cozen’d this way.
Sir Pat. I’ll about it, this very minute about it,—give me a Chair.— He sits.
Lean. So, settle your self well, disorder your Hair,—throw away your Cane, Hat and Gloves,—stare, and rowl your Eyes, squeeze your Face into Convulsions,—clutch your Hands, make your Stomach heave, so, very well,—now let me alone for the rest—Oh, help, help, my Lady, my Aunt, for Heavens sake, help,—come all and see him die. Weeps.
Enter Wittmore, Lady Fancy, Isabella, Lucretia, Lady Knowell, Roger, [and Nurse].
Wit. Leander, what’s the matter?
Lean. See, Madam, see my Uncle in the Agonies of Death.