Sir _Pat._ Away, you Wag, will you? will you?--Catch her there, catch her. L. _Fan._ I will indeed,--Death, there’s no getting from him,--pray lie down--and I’ll cover thee close enough I’ll warrant thee.-- [Aside. [He lies down, she covers him. Had ever Lovers such spiteful luck! hah--surely he sleeps, bless the mistaken Bottle.--Ay, he sleeps,--whilst, _Wittmore_-- [He coming out falls; pulls the Chair down, Sir _Patient_ flings open the Curtain. _Wit._ Plague of my over-care, what shall I do? Sir _Pat._ What’s that, what Noise is that? let me see, we are not safe; lock up the Doors, what’s the matter? What Thunder-Clap was that? [_Wittmore_ runs under the Bed; she runs to Sir _Patient_, and holds him in his Bed. L. _Fan._ Pray, Sir, lie still, ‘twas I was only going to sit down, and a sudden Giddiness took me in my Head, which made me fall, and with me the Chair; there is no danger near ye, Sir--I was just coming to sleep by you. Sir _Pat._ Go, you’re a flattering Huswife; go, catch her, catch her, catch her. [Lies down, she covers him. L. _Fan._ Oh, how I tremble at the dismal apprehension of being discover’d! Had I secur’d my self of the eight thousand Pound, I wou’d not value _Wittmore’s_ being seen. But now to be found out, wou’d call my Wit in question, for ‘tis the Fortunate alone are wise.-- [_Wittmore_ peeps from under the Bed; she goes softly to the Door to open it. _Wit._ Was ever Man so plagu’d?--hah--what’s this?--confound my tell-tale Watch, the Larum goes, and there’s no getting to’t to silence it.--Damn’d Misfortune! [Sir _Patient_ rises, and flings open the Curtains. Sir _Pat._ Hah, what’s that? L. _Fan._ Heavens! what’s the matter? we are destin’d to discovery. [She runs to Sir _Patient_, and leaves the Door still fast. Sir _Pat._ What’s that I say, what’s that? let me see, let me see, what ringing’s that, Oh, let me see what ‘tis. [Strives to get up, she holds him down. L. _Fan._ Oh, now I see my Fate’s inevitable! Alas, that ever I was born to see’t. [Weeps. _Wit._ Death, she’ll tell him I am here: Nay, he must know’t, a Pox of all Invention and Mechanicks, and he were damn’d that first contriv’d a Watch. Sir _Pat._ Hah, dost weep?--why dost weep? I say, what Noise is that? what ringing? hah.-- L. _Fan._ ‘Tis that, ‘tis that, my Dear, that makes me weep. Alas, I never hear this fatal Noise, but some dear Friend dies. Sir _Pat._ Hah, dies! Oh, that must be I, ay, ay, Oh. L. _Fan._ I’ve heard it, Sir, this two Days, but wou’d not tell you of it. Sir _Pat._ Hah! heard it these two Days! Oh, what is’t a Death-watch?--hah.-- L. _Fan._ Ay, Sir, a Death-watch, a certain Larum Death-watch, a thing that has warn’d our Family this hundred Years, oh,--I’m the most undone Woman! _Wit._ A Blessing on her for a dear dissembling Jilt--Death and the Devil, will it never cease?