Arch. You a lover, and not find a way to get off!—Let me see—
Aim. You bleed, Archer. [50]
Arch. 'Sdeath, I 'm glad on 't; this wound will do the business. I 'll amuse the old lady and Mrs. Sullen about dressing my wound, while you carry off Dorinda.
Lady Boun. Gentlemen, could we understand how you would be gratified for the services—
Arch. Come, come, my lady, this is no time for compliments; I 'm wounded, madam.
Lady Boun., Mrs. Sut. How! wounded!
Dor. I hope, sir, you have received no hurt? [60]
Aim. None but what you may cure——
[Makes love in dumb show.
Lady Boun. Let me see your arm, sir—I must have some powder-sugar to stop the blood.—O me! an ugly gash; upon my word, sir, you must go into bed.