_Shar._ Upon my Soul, Sir, begging your Pardon, you make as ridiculous a Figure in this Business as a disappointed Lover in a Play; why Sir, our Farce is now in the very Height of the Plot, and it is impossible you can have your Mistress 'till it be ended. _Bell._ Nor then either I am afraid. _Shar._ Lord, Sir, you are too hasty. You are like the ignorant part of an Audience the first night of a new Play; you will have things brought about before their time. Go and take Possession of the Assets, I tell you, and leave the rest to the Devil and the Law. Get them on our side, and I'll engage you prosper in any Roguery. _Bell._ Well, I'll go--but I see no glimmering of hope from it. (_Exit Bellair_) _Shar._ Lucy, do you shut up all the Windows and lock up the door. _Lucy._ That's impossible, for Mr. Littlewit and Doctor Leatherhead are below with the Marriage Articles. _Shar._ O the Devil! Then we are all ruined again. Hold--ha--ay--I have a thought. Lucy, do the Lawyers know of the old Man's Death? _Lucy._ Not a word. They are but this minute come in. _Shar._ Then keep it an entire Secret--I'll clinch the whole Affair this Instant.--Get me the old Man's Gown--and Cap--his Slippers, his Pillow, his Flannels and all his Trumpery. _Lucy._ Here they all are upon the Table where he shifted. _Shar._ Give 'em me, quick, quick--ask no questions--so--now my Cap--my gouty Slippers, my Flannels for my hands, here, here, pin them on, pin them on, quick--quick, so! And now my great Chair--and now I am damnable ill--O sick, sick,--Auh--Auh--Auh! Go and tell my Master how I am transmogrified, do you hear, and bid him not be surprized let what will happen, but first send up the Lawyers. (_Exit Lucy_) Lawyers have often made false Wills for their own Interests, and I see no reason now why they mayn't make one for mine. I am sure I have as good a Title to be a Rogue as any of them all, for my Father was an Irish Solicitor, my Mother a Yorkshire Gipsy, I was begotten in Wales, born in Scotland, and brought up at that famous University of St. Giles pound, and now he who has a better Right to be a Rogue than me, let him put in his Claim. Tho' I believe nobody will dispute it with me, it is all my own today; when I come to Westminster Hall I'll resign. (_Enter_ BELLAIR, LUCY, _Doctor_ LEATHERHEAD, _and Mr._ LITTLEWIT, [_with_] _Pens, Ink, Papers, Candles, etc., etc._) _Shar._ So Gentlemen, when I sent for you in the Morning, I was foolish enough to think of Marriage, but Heaven pardon me, I must now think of Death, of my poor precious Soul. I must desire you to get my Will ready as soon as possible, for I fear my poor fleeting Life is not worth half an Hour's purchase. _Doct._ The sooner it is done, the better; it may procure you Ease and Consolation of mind.