LOVELESS. [_Leading_ BERINTHIA _up the stage_.] Not I, my lord; I am too fashionable a husband to pry into the secrets of my wife. LORD FOPPINGTON. [_Aside to_ AMANDA _squeezing her hand_.] I am in love with you to desperation, strike me speechless! AMANDA. [_Strikes him on the ear_.] Then thus I return your passion.—An impudent fool! LORD FOPPINGTON. God’s curse, madam, I am a peer of the realm! LOVELESS. [_Hastily returning_.] Hey! what the devil, do you affront my wife, sir? Nay, then—[_Draws. They fight._] AMANDA. What has my folly done?—Help! murder! help! Part them for Heaven’s sake. LORD FOPPINGTON. [_Falls back and leans on his sword._] Ah! quite through the body, stap my vitals! _Enter_ SERVANTS. LOVELESS. [_Runs to_ LORD FOPPINGTON.] I hope I ha’nt killed the fool, however. Bear him up.—Call a surgeon there. LORD FOPPINGTON. Ay, pray make haste. [_Exit_ SERVANT. LOVELESS. This mischief you may thank yourself for. LORD FOPPINGTON. I may say so; love’s the devil indeed, Ned. _Re-enter_ SERVANT, _with_ PROBE. SERVANT. Here’s Mr. Probe, sir, was just going by the door. LORD FOPPINGTON. He’s the welcomest man alive. PROBE. Stand by, stand by, stand by; pray, gentlemen, stand by. Lord have mercy upon us, did you never see a man run through the body before?—Pray stand by. LORD FOPPINGTON. Ah, Mr. Probe, I’m a dead man. PROBE. A dead man, and I by! I should laugh to see that, egad. LOVELESS. Pr’ythee don’t stand prating, but look upon his wound. PROBE. Why, what if I don’t look upon his wound this hour, sir? LOVELESS. Why, then he’ll bleed to death, sir. PROBE. Why, then I’ll fetch him to life again, sir. LOVELESS. ’Slife! he’s run through the body, I tell thee. PROBE. I wish he was run through the heart, and I should get the more credit by his cure. Now I hope you are satisfied? Come, now let me come at him—now let me come at him.—[_Viewing his wound._] Oops, what a gash is here! why, sir, a man may drive a coach and six horses into your body. LORD FOPPINGTON. Oh! PROBE. Why, what the devil have you run the gentleman through with—a scythe?—[_Aside_.] A little scratch between the skin and the ribs, that’s all. LOVELESS. Let me see his wound. PROBE. Then you shall dress it, sir; for if anybody looks upon it I won’t. LOVELESS. Why, thou art the veriest coxcomb I ever saw! PROBE. Sir, I am not master of my trade for nothing. LORD FOPPINGTON. Surgeon! PROBE. Sir. LORD FOPPINGTON. Are there any hopes? PROBE. Hopes! I can’t tell. What are you willing to give for a cure? LORD FOPPINGTON. Five hundred paunds with pleasure. PROBE. Why then perhaps there may be hopes; but we must avoid further delay.—Here, help the gentleman into a chair, and carry him to my house presently—that’s the properest place—[_Aside_.] to bubble him out of his money.—[_Aloud_.] Come, a chair—a chair quickly—there, in with him. [SERVANTS _put_ LORD FOPPINGTON _into a chair_.]