L. Fan. Then I’m not so much oblig’d to thee,—but where’s the Money, the 8000l. the Plate and Jewels, Sirrah?
Wit. Death, the Dog has eat it.
Sir Cred. Eat it! Oh Lord, eat 8000l. Wou’d I might never come out of this Basket alive, if ever I made such a Meal in my Life.
Wit. Ye Dog, you have eat it; and I’ll make ye swallow all the Doses you writ in your Bill, but I’ll have it upward or downward. Aside.
Sir Pat. Hah, one of the Rogues my Doctors.
Sir Cred. Oh, dear Sir, hang me out of the way rather.
Enter Maundy.
Maun. Madam, I have sent away the Basket to Mr. Wittmore’s Lodgings.
L. Fan. You might have sav’d your self that Labour, I now having no more to do, but to bury the stinking Corps of my quandom Cuckold, dismiss his Daughters, and give thee quiet possession of all. To Wit.
Sir Pat. Fair Lady, you’ll take me along with you? Snaps, pulls off his Hat, and comes up to her.