Lady Brute. I am sure I have given you a thousand tender Proofs, how great my Care is of you. But, spite of all your cruel Thoughts, I'll still persist, and at this Moment, if I can, persuade you to lie down and sleep a little.
Sir John. Why—do you think I am drunk—you Slut, you?
Lady Brute. Heaven forbid I shou'd! But I'm afraid you are feverish. Pray let me feel your Pulse.
Sir John. Stand off, and be damn'd.
Lady Brute. Why, I see your Distemper in your very Eyes. You are all on Fire. Pray, go to Bed; let me intreat you.
Sir John.——Come, kiss me, then.
Lady Brute. [Kissing him.] There: Now go. [Aside.] He stinks like Poison.
Sir John. I see it goes damnably against your Stomach—And therefore—Kiss me again.
Lady Brute. Nay, now you fool me.
Sir John. Do't, I say.