DR. ROSY.
No, no, you mistake. Rum agreed with her well enough; it was not the rum that killed the poor dear creature, for she died of a dropsy. Well, she is gone, never to return, and has left no pledge of our loves behind. No little babe, to hang like a label round papa’s neck. Well, well, we are all mortal—sooner or later—flesh is grass— flowers fade.
LIEUTENANT O’CONNOR.
[Aside.] Oh, the devil!—again!
DR. ROSY.
Life’s a shadow—the world a stage—we strut an hour.
LIEUTENANT O’CONNOR.
Here, doctor. [Offers snuff.]
DR. ROSY.
True, true, my friend: well, high grief can’t cure it. All’s for the best, hey! my little Alexander?
LIEUTENANT O’CONNOR.
Right, right; an apothecary should never be out of spirits. But come, faith, ’tis time honest Humphrey should wait on the justice; that must be our first scheme.
DR. ROSY.
True, true; you should be ready: the clothes are at my house, and I have given you such a character, that he is impatient to have you: he swears you shall be his body-guard. Well, I honour the army, or I should never do so much to serve you.
LIEUTENANT O’CONNOR.
Indeed I am bound to you for ever, doctor; and when once I’m possessed of my dear Lauretta, I will endeavour to make work for you as fast as possible.
DR. ROSY.
Now you put me in mind of my poor wife again.
LIEUTENANT O’CONNOR.
Ah, pray forget her a little: we shall be too late.