_Lord Fop._ [_To Aman. squeezing her Hand._] I am in love with you to Desperation, strike me speechless. _Aman._ [_Giving him a Box o' th' Ear._] Then thus I return your Passion----An impudent Fool! _Lord Fop._ Gad's Curse, Madam, I'm a Peer of the Realm. _Lov._ Hey; what the Devil, do you affront my Wife, Sir? Nay then-- [_They draw and fight. The Women run shrieking for Help._ _Aman._ Ah! What has my Folly done? Help! Murder, help! Part 'em, for Heaven's sake. _Lord Fop._ [_Falling back, and leaning upon his Sword._] Ah----quite thro' the Body----Stap my Vitals. _Enter Servants._ _Lov._ [_Running to him._] I hope I han't kill'd the Fool, however----Bear him up! Where's your Wound? _Lord Fop._ Just thro' the Guts. _Lov._ Call a Surgeon there: Unbutton him quickly. _Lord Fop._ Ay, pray make haste. _Lov._ This Mischief you may thank yourself for. _Lord Fop._ I may so--Love's the Devil indeed, _Ned_. _Enter ~Syringe~ and Servant._ _Serv._ Here's Mr. _Syringe_, Sir, was just going by the Door. _Lord Fop._ He's the welcomest Man alive. _Syr._ Stand by, stand by, stand by. Pray, Gentlemen, stand by. Lord have mercy upon us! Did you never see a Man run thro' the Body before? Pray stand by. _Lord Fop._ Ah, Mr. _Syringe_.----I'm a dead Man. _Syr._ A dead Man, and I by----I shou'd laugh to see that, I'gad. _Lov._ Pr'ythee don't stand prating, but look upon his Wound. _Syr._ Why, what if I won't look upon his Wound this Hour, Sir? _Lov._ Why then he'll bleed to Death, Sir. _Syr._ Why, then I'll fetch him to life again, Sir. _Lov._ 'Slife, he's run thro' the Guts, I tell thee. _Syr._ Wou'd he were run thro' the Heart, I shou'd get the more Credit by his Cure. Now I hope you are satisfy'd?----Come, now let me come at him; now let me come at him. [_Viewing his Wound._] Oons, what a Gash is here!--Why, Sir, a Man may drive a Coach and Six Horses into your Body. _Lord Fop._ Ho---- _Syr._ Why, what the Devil, have you run the Gentleman thro' with a Scythe?----[_Aside._] A little Prick between the Skin and the Ribs, that's all. _Lov._ Let me see his Wound. _Syr._ Then you shall dress it, Sir; for if any body looks upon it, I won't. _Lov._ Why, thou art the veriest Coxcomb I ever saw. _Syr._ Sir, I am not Matter of my Trade for nothing. _Lord Fop._ Surgeon! _Syr._ Well, Sir. _Lord Fop._ Is there any Hopes? _Syr._ Hopes!----I can't tell----What are you willing to give for your Cure? _Lord Fop._ Five hundred Paunds with Pleasure. _Syr._ 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. Come, a Chair, a Chair quickly--There, in with him. [_They put him into a Chair._