BETTY.
John, go for the potter-carrier this instant—I believes to my soul she is dead—Kitty, fetch some feathers to burn under her nose;—there, stand further off, and give her some air—
Enter Sir Luke.
Sir LUKE.
Hey day! what the deuce is the matter? what's the meaning of all this, Mrs. Betty?
BETTY.
Oh! Sir, is it you—my poor lady! [cries] clap the bottle hard to her nose.
Sir LUKE.
But how came it about?
BETTY.