Dom. Pray, how long has she been sick?
Gom. Lord, you will force a man to speak;—why, ever since your last defeat.
Dom. This can be but some slight indisposition; it will not last, and I may see her.
Gom. How, not last! I say, it will last, and it shall last; she shall be sick these seven or eight days, and perhaps longer, as I see occasion. What? I know the mind of her sickness a little better than you do.
Dom. I find, then, I must bring a doctor.
Gom. And he'll bring an apothecary, with a chargeable long bill of ana's: those of my family have the grace to die cheaper. In a word, Sir Dominick, we understand one another's business here: I am resolved to stand like the Swiss of my own family, to defend the entrance; you may mumble over your 443 pater nosters, if you please, and try if you can make my doors fly open, and batter down my walls with bell, book, and candle; but I am not of opinion, that you are holy enough to commit miracles.
Dom. Men of my order are not to be treated after this manner.
Gom. I would treat the pope and all his cardinals in the same manner, if they offered to see my wife, without my leave.
Dom. I excommunicate thee from the church, if thou dost not open; there's promulgation coming out.
Gom. And I excommunicate you from my wife, if you go to that: there's promulgation for promulgation, and bull for bull; and so I leave you to recreate yourself with the end of an old song—
And sorrow came to the old friar.[Exit.