L. Kno. Congruously spoken, upon my Honour. Oh, the impudence of this Fellow your Ladyship’s Husband, to espouse so fair a Person only to make a Nurse of!
L. Fan. Alas, Madam!—
L. Kno. A Slave, a very Houshold Drudge.—Oh, faugh, come never grieve;—for, Madam, his Disease is nothing but Imagination, a Melancholy which arises from the Liver, Spleen, and Membrane call’d Mesenterium; the Arabians name the Distemper Myrathial, and we here in England, Hypochondriacal Melancholy; I cou’d prescribe a most potent Remedy, but that I am loth to stir the Envy of the College.
L. Fan. Really, Madam, I believe—
L. Kno. But as you say, Madam, we’ll leave him to his Repose; pray do not grieve too much.
Lod. Death! wou’d I had the consoling her, ’tis a charming Woman!
L. Kno. Mr. Fancy, your Hand; Madam, your most faithful Servant.—Lucretia, come, Lucretia.—Your Servant, Ladies and Gentleman.
L. Fan. A Devil on her, wou’d the Nimbleness of her Ladyship’s Tongue were in her Heels, she wou’d make more haste away: oh, I long for the blest minute.
Lod. Isabella, shall I find admittance anon?
Isab. On fair Conditions.