Dor. Poor gentleman—Oh—he has got my hand within his, and squeezes it unmercifully——
Lady B. 'Tis the violence of his convulsion, child.
Arch. Oh, madam, he's perfectly possessed in these cases—he'll bite you, if you don't have a care.
Dor. Oh, my hand, my hand!
Lady B. What's the matter with the foolish girl? I have got this hand open you see with a great deal of ease.
Arch. Ay, but, madam, your daughter's hand is somewhat warmer than your ladyship's, and the heat of it draws the force of the spirits that way.
Mrs. Sul. I find, friend, you are very learned in these sort of fits.
Arch. 'Tis no wonder, madam, for I'm often troubled with them myself; I find myself extremely ill at this minute.
[Looking hard at Mrs. Sullen.
Mrs. Sul. [Aside.] I fancy I could find a way to cure you.