Sir Pat. Alter’d, hah—why, where, why, how alter’d?—hah, alter’d say you?
Wit. Lord, how wildly he stares!
Sir Pat. Hah, stare wildly!
Rog. Are you not very sick, Sir?
L. Fan. Sick! oh, Heavens forbid!—How does my dearest Love?
Sir Pat. Methinks I feel myself not well o’th’ sudden—ah—a kind of shivering seizes all my Limbs,—and am I so much chang’d?
Wit. All over, Sir, as big again as you were.
L. Fan. Your Face is frightfully blown up, and your dear Eyes just starting from your Head; oh, I shall sound with the apprehension on’t. Falls into Wittmore’s Arms.
Sir Pat. My Head and Eyes so big, say you: oh, I’m wondrous sick o’th’ sudden,—all over say you—oh, oh—Ay, I perceive it now, my Senses fail me too.
L. Fan. How, Sir, your Senses fail you?