Lean. A Sort of specifick Poison for all the Senses, especially for that of smelling; so that had I a Rival, and I should see him at any reasonable distance, I could direct a little of this Scent up to his Brain so subtlely, that it shall not fail of Execution in a day or two.
Sir Cred. How—Poison! Shewing great Signs of Fear, and holding his Nose.
Lean. Nay, shou’d I see him in the midst of a thousand People, I can so direct it, that it shall assault my Enemy’s Nostrils only, without any effects on the rest of the Company.
Sir Cred. Oh,—I’m a dead Man!
Lod. Is’t possible?
Lean. Perhaps some little sneezing or so, no harm; but my Enemy’s a dead Man, Sir, kill’d.
Sir Cred. Why, this is the most damn’d Italian Trick I ever heard of; why, this outdoes the famous Poisoner [Madam Brenvilliers]; well, here’s no jesting, I perceive that, Lodwick.
Lod. Fear nothing, I’ll secure you. Aside to him.
Enter Wittmore.
—Wittmore! how is’t, Friend! thou lookest cloudy.