Flut. Upon my soul I hav'n't got it. [Exceedingly frightened.]
Sav. Oh, Mr. Flutter, what a melancholy sight!——I little thought to have seen my poor friend reduced to this.
Flut. Mercy defend me! What's he mad?
Sav. You see how it is. A cursed Italian Lady—Jealousy—gave him a drug; and every full of the moon——
Doric. Moon! Who dares talk of the Moon? The patroness of genius—the rectifier of wits—the——Oh! here she is!—I feel her—she tugs at my brain—she has it—she has it——Oh!
[Exit.
Flut. Well! this is dreadful! exceeding dreadful, I protest. Have you had Monro?
Sav. Not yet. The worthy Miss Hardy—what a misfortune!
Flut. Aye, very true.—Do they know it?
Sav. Oh, no; the paroxysm seized him but this morning.