Sir Pat. What crys are these that stop me on my way?
L. Fan. They’re mine,—your Lady’s—oh, surely he’ll recover. Aside.
Your most obedient Wife’s.
Sir Pat. My Wife’s, my Heir, my sole Executrix.
L. Fan. Hah, is he in’s Senses? Aside to Wit.
Oh my dear Love, my Life, my Joy, my All, Crys.
Oh, let me go; I will not live without him. Seems to faint in Wittmore’s Arms. All run about her.
Sir Pat. Do ye hear that, Sirrah?
Lean. Have yet a little Patience, die away,—very well—Oh, he’s gone,—quite gone. L. Fan. swoons.
L. Kno. Look to my Lady there, Swoons again.