Wit. As a Herring, and ’twill be dangerous to keep these habits longer.
Sir Cred. Dangerous! Zoz, Man, we shall all be hang’d, why, our very Bill dispatch’d him, and our Hands are to’t,—Oh, I’ll confess all.— Offers to go.
Lod. Death, Sir, I’ll cut your Throat if you stir.
Sir Cred. Wou’d you have me hang’d for Company, Gentlemen? Oh, where shall I hide my self, or how come at my Clothes?
Lod. We have no time for that; go get you into your Basket again, and lie snug, till I have convey’d you safe away,—or I’ll abandon you.— Aside to him.
’Tis not necessary he shou’d be seen yet, he may spoil Leander’s Plot. Aside.
Sir Cred. Oh, thank ye, dear Lodwick,—let me escape this bout, and if ever the Fool turn Physician again, may he be choak’d with his own Tetrachymagogon.
Wit. Go, haste and undress you, whilst I’ll to Lucia. Exeunt Lod. [and Sir Cred.]
As Wittmore is going out at one Door, enter Sir Patient and Leander at the other Door.
Lean. Hah, Wittmore there! he must not see my Uncle yet. Puts Sir Pat. back.