Syr. Sir, I am not Matter of my Trade for nothing.
Lord Fop. Surgeon!
Syr. Well, Sir.
Lord Fop. Is there any Hopes?
Syr. Hopes!—--I can't tell——What are you willing to give for your Cure?
Lord Fop. Five hundred Paunds with Pleasure.
Syr. Why then perhaps there may be Hopes. But we must avoid further Delay. Here, help the Gentleman into a Chair, and carry him to my House presently, that's the properest place [Aside.] to bubble him out of his Money. Come, a Chair, a Chair quickly—There, in with him.
[They put him into a Chair.
Lord Fop. Dear Loveless——Adieu. If I die——I forgive thee; and if I live——I hope thou wilt do as much by me. I am very sorry you and I shou'd quarrel; but I hope here's an end on't, for if you are satisfy'd——I am.
Lov. I shall hardly think it worth my prosecuting any farther, so you may be at rest, Sir.