Chapter 3

Enter Sir _Patient_ as before, Lady _Fancy_, _Wittmore_, _Maundy_, and _Roger_ with things.

Sir _Pat._ _Maundy_, fetch my Clothes, I’ll dress me and out of Town instantly,--persuade me not. [To _Wit._ _Roger_, is the Coach ready, _Roger_?

_Rog._ Yes, Sir, with four Horses.

L. _Fan._ Out of Town! Oh, I’m undone then, there will be no hopes of ever seeing _Wittmore_. [Aside.] --_Maundy_, oh, help me to contrive my stay, or I’m a dead Woman.--Sir, sure you cannot go and leave your Affairs in Town.

Sir _Pat._ Affairs! what Affairs?

L. _Fan._ Why, your Daughter’s Marriage, Sir:--and--Sir,--not, Sir, but that I desire of all things in the World the Blessing of being alone with you, far from the Noise and leud Disorders of this filthy Town.

Sir _Pat._ Most excellent Woman! ah, thou art too good for sinful Man, and I will therefore remove thee from the Temptations of it.--_Maundy_, my Clothes--Mr. _Fainlove_, I will leave _Isabella_ with my Lady _Fidget_, my Sister, who shall to morrow see you married, to prevent farther Inconveniences.

L. _Fan._ What shall I do?

_Maun._ Madam, I have a Design, which considering his Spleen, must this time do our Business,--’tis-- [Whispers.

L. _Fan._ I like it well, about it instantly, hah-- [Ex. _Maundy_. Alas, Sir, what ails your Face? good Heaven,--look, _Roger_.

Sir _Pat._ My Face! why, what ails my Face? hah!

L. _Fan._ See, Mr. _Fainlove_, oh, look on my Dear, is he not strangely alter’d?

_Wit._ Most wonderfully.

Sir _Pat._ Alter’d, hah--why, where, why, how alter’d?--hah, alter’d say you?

_Wit._ Lord, how wildly he stares!

Sir _Pat._ Hah, stare wildly!

_Rog._ Are you not very sick, Sir?

L. _Fan._ Sick! oh, Heavens forbid!--How does my dearest Love?

Sir _Pat._ Methinks I feel myself not well o’th’ sudden--ah--a kind of shivering seizes all my Limbs,--and am I so much chang’d?

_Wit._ All over, Sir, as big again as you were.

L. _Fan._ Your Face is frightfully blown up, and your dear Eyes just starting from your Head; oh, I shall sound with the apprehension on’t. [Falls into _Wittmore’s_ Arms.

Sir _Pat._ My Head and Eyes so big, say you: oh, I’m wondrous sick o’th’ sudden,--all over say you--oh, oh--Ay, I perceive it now, my Senses fail me too.

L. _Fan._ How, Sir, your Senses fail you?

_Wit._ That’s a very bad sign, believe me.

Sir _Pat._ Oh, ay, for I can neither feel nor see this mighty growth you speak of. [Falls into a Chair, with great signs of Disorder.

_Wit._ Alas, I’m sorry for that, Sir.

_Rog._ Sure, ‘tis impossible, I’ll run and fetch a Glass, Sir. [Offers to go.

L. _Fan._ Oh, stay, I wou’d not for the world he should see what a Monster he is,--and is like to be before to morrow. [Aside.

_Rog._ I’ll fit him with a Glass,--I’ll warrant ye, it shall advance our Design. [Exit _Roger_.

Enter _Maundy_ with the Clothes, she starts.

_Maun._ Good Heaven, what ails you, Sir?

Sir _Pat._ Oh--oh--’tis so.

_Maun._ Lord, how he’s swoln! see how his Stomach struts.

Sir _Pat._ Ah, ‘tis true, though I perceive it not.

_Maun._ Not perceive it, Sir! put on your Clothes and be convinc’d,--try ’.m, Sir. [She pulls off his Gown, and puts on his Doublet and Coat, which come not near by a handful or more.

Sir _Pat._ Ah, it needs not,--mercy upon me!-- [Falls back. I’m lost, I’m gone! Oh Man, what art thou but a Flower? I am poison’d, this talking Lady’s Breath’s infectious; methought I felt the Contagion steal into my Heart; send for my Physicians, and if I die I’ll swear she’s my Murderer: oh, see, see, how my trembling increases, oh, hold my Limbs, I die.--

Enter _Roger_ with a magnifying Glass, shews him the Glass; he looks in it.

_Rog._ I’ll warrant I’ll shew his Face as big as a Bushel. [Aside.

Sir _Pat._ Oh, oh,--I’m a dead Man, have me to Bed, I die away, undress me instantly, send for my Physicians, I’m poison’d, my Bowels burn, I have within an _Ætna_, my Brains run round, Nature within me reels. [They carry him out in a Chair.

_Wit._ And all the drunken Universe does run on Wheels, ha, ha, ha.

Ah, my dear Creature, how finely thou hast brought him to his Journy’s end!

L. _Fan._ There was no other way but this to have secur’d my Happiness with thee; there needs no more than that you come anon to the Garden Back-gate, where you shall find admittance;--Sir _Patient_ is like to lie alone to night.

_Wit._ Till then ‘twill be a thousand Ages.

L. _Fan._ At Games of Love Husbands to cheat is fair, ‘Tis the Gallant we play with on the square.

[Exeunt severally.