Ptis. Mrs. Colloquintida complains still of a dejection of appetite; she says that the genevre is too cold for her stomach.
Foss. Give her a quieting draught; but let us not interrupt one another. Good Mr. Ptisan, we are upon business.
[Fossile gets between Sarsnet and Townley.
Ptis. The colonel's spitting is quite suppress'd.
Foss. Give him a quieting draught. Come to morrow, Mr. Ptisan; I can see no body till then.
Ptis. Lady Varnish finds no benefit of the waters; for the pimple on the tip of her nose still continues.
Foss. Give her a quieting draught.
Ptis. Mrs. Prudentia's tympany grows bigger and bigger. What, no pearl cordial! must I quiet them all?
Foss. Give them all quieting draughts, I say, or blister them all, as you please. Your servant Mr. Ptisan.
Ptis. But then lady Giddy's vapours. She calls her chamber-maids nymphs; for she fancies herself Diana, and her husband Acteon.
Foss. I can attend no patient till to morrow. Give her a quieting draught, I say.