[Frances comes to him.]
FRANCES. Sweet Sir, I love you dearly, and could wish my best part yours,—oh do not undertake such an impossible venture.
PYE.
Love you me? then for your sweet sake I’ll doo’t:
Let me entreat the corpse to be set down.
SHERIFF. Bearers, set down the Coffin.—This were wonderful, and worthy Stoes Chronicle.
PYE. I pray bestow the freedom of the air upon our wholesome Art.— Mass, his cheeks begin to receive natural warmth: nay, good Corporal, wake betime, or I shall have a longer sleep then you.—Sfoot, if he should prove dead indeed now, he were fully revenged upon me for making a property on him, yet I had rather run upon the Ropes, then have the Rope like a Tetter run upon me. Oh—he stirs—he stirs again—look, Gentlemen, he recovers, he starts, he rises.
SHERIFF.
Oh, oh, defend us!—out, alas.
PYE. Nay, pray be still; you’ll make him more giddy else:—he knows no body yet.
CORPORAL.
Zounes: where am I? covered with Snow? I marvel.
PYE. Nay, I knew he would swear the first thing he did, as soon as ever he came to life again.
CORPORAL. Sfoot, Hostess, some hot Porridge,—oh, oh, lay on a dozen of Fagots in the Moon parlor, there.