Enter Gilbert. R.

Gil. What, master Label, ah! bad work for you—all hearty as oaks—not a pulse to be felt in all Deal.

Label. Ah, I can’t think how that is.

Gil. Can’t you? I’ll tell you—we’ve no doctors with us; no body but you, and you’ll never do any harm, because—

Label. Because—because what?

Gil. Why we all know you, and there’s few will give you the chance; who do you think would employ a doctor who goes about calling at peoples’ houses to mend their constitutions, as tinkers call for old kettles.

Label. Ah, that’s it, humble merit may trudge its shoes off, and never finger a fee, whilst swaggering impudence bounces out of a carriage, and all he touches turns to gold. Farewell, good Gilbert, farewell—I’m off for Dover.

Gil. What! to night?

Label. Yes, directly.

Gil. Why you must pass through the church-yard.