Arch. At your gate, madam: drawn by the appearance of your handsome house, to view it nearer, and walking up the avenue, within five paces of the courtyard, he was taken ill of a sudden, with a sort of I know not what: but down he fell, and there he lies.
Lady B. Here, Scrub, Gipsey.
Enter Scrub and Gipsey.
All run, get my easy-chair down stairs, put the gentleman in it, and bring him in quickly, quickly.
Arch. Heaven will reward your ladyship for this charitable act.
Lady B. Is your master used to these fits?
Arch. O yes, madam, frequently—I have known him have five or six of a night.
Lady B. What's his name?
Arch. Lord, madam, he's dying; a minute's care or neglect may save or destroy his life.
Lady B. Ah, poor gentleman! come, friend, show me the way; I'll see him brought in myself.