Shall appease my restless Spirit.
I have the Rats-bane ready.—I run no Risque; for I can lay her Death upon the Ginn, and so many die of that naturally that I shall never be call’d in question.—But say, I were to be hang’d.—I never could be hang’d for any thing that would give me greater Comfort, than the poisoning that Slut.
Enter Filch.
Filch. Madam, here’s Miss Polly come to wait upon you.
Lucy. Show her in.
Enter Polly.
Dear Madam, your Servant.—I hope you will pardon my Passion, when I was so happy to see you last.—I was so over-run with the Spleen, that I was perfectly out of myself. And really when one hath the Spleen, every thing is to be excus’d by a Friend.
[ AIR XLVII. Now Roger, I’ll tell thee because thou ’rt my Son.]
