Town. Faugh. Wine in the morning!
[Fossile drinks and fills again, and drops some of the liquor into the glass.]
What is the meaning of this? am I to be poison'd.
[aside.
Foss. You must drink it. Sack is sacred to Hymen; of it is made the nuptial posset.
Town. Don't press me, Mr. Fossile, I nauseate it. It smells strangely. There is something in it.
Foss. An ill symptom! she can't bear the smell. [aside.] Pray, my dear, oblige me.
Town. I'm for none of your flops. I'll fill myself.
Foss. I must own, I have put some restorative drops in it, which are excellent. I may drink it safely. [aside.] [drinks.] The next glass I prepare for you.
[Fills, and [powers some drops in].
[Townley drinks. Fossile runs behind to support her; then pores upon her cheek, and touches it with his finger.