SERVANT.
Nothing, your worship, unless it was a little grounds.
JUSTICE CREDULOUS.
What colour were they?
SERVANT.
Blackish, your worship.
JUSTICE CREDULOUS.
Ay, arsenic, black arsenic!—Why don’t you run for Dr. Rosy, you rascal?
SERVANT.
Now, sir?
MRS. BRIDGET CREDULOUS.
Oh, lovee, you may be sure it is in vain; let him run for the lawyer to witness your will, my life.
JUSTICE CREDULOUS.
Zounds! go for the doctor, you scoundrel. You are all confederate murderers.
SERVANT.
Oh, here he is, your worship. [Exit.]
JUSTICE CREDULOUS.
Now, Bridget, hold your tongue, and let me see if my horrid situation be apparent.
Enter DOCTOR ROSY.