Wit. That’s a very bad sign, believe me.
Sir Pat. Oh, ay, for I can neither feel nor see this mighty growth you speak of. Falls into a Chair, with great signs of Disorder.
Wit. Alas, I’m sorry for that, Sir.
Rog. Sure, ’tis impossible, I’ll run and fetch a Glass, Sir. Offers to go.
L. Fan. Oh, stay, I wou’d not for the world he should see what a Monster he is,—and is like to be before to morrow. Aside.
Rog. I’ll fit him with a Glass,—I’ll warrant ye, it shall advance our Design. [Exit Roger.]
Enter Maundy with the Clothes, she starts.
Maun. Good Heaven, what ails you, Sir?
Sir Pat. Oh—oh—’tis so.
Maun. Lord, how he’s swoln! see how his Stomach struts.