L. _Fan._ Hah, is he in’s Senses? [Aside to _Wit._ Oh my dear Love, my Life, my Joy, my All, [Crys. Oh, let me go; I will not live without him. [Seems to faint in _Wittmore’s_ Arms. All run about her. Sir _Pat._ Do ye hear that, Sirrah? _Lean._ Have yet a little Patience, die away,--very well--Oh, he’s gone,--quite gone. [L. _Fan._ swoons. L. _Kno._ Look to my Lady there, [Swoons again. --Sure she can but counterfeit. [Aside. [They all go about her. Sir _Pat._ Hah, my Lady dying! _Lean._ Sir, I beseech you wait the event. Death! the cunning Devil will dissemble too long and spoil all,--here--carry the dead Corps of my dearest Uncle to his Chamber. Nurse, to your Care I commit him now. [Exeunt with Sir _Pat._ in a Chair. [All follow but _Wittmore_; who going the other way, meets Sir _Credulous_ and _Lodwick_, as before. _Wit._ _Lodwick!_ the strangest unexpected News, Sir _Patient’s_ dead! Sir _Cred._ How, dead! we have play’d the Physicians to good purpose, i’faith, and kill’d the Man before we administer’d our Physick. _Wit._ Egad, I fear so indeed. _Lod._ Dead! _Wit._ As a Herring, and ‘twill be dangerous to keep these habits longer. Sir _Cred._ Dangerous! Zoz, Man, we shall all be hang’d, why, our very Bill dispatch’d him, and our Hands are to’t,--Oh, I’ll confess all.-- [Offers to go. _Lod._ Death, Sir, I’ll cut your Throat if you stir. Sir _Cred._ Wou’d you have me hang’d for Company, Gentlemen? Oh, where shall I hide my self, or how come at my Clothes? _Lod._ We have no time for that; go get you into your Basket again, and lie snug, till I have convey’d you safe away,--or I’ll abandon you.-- [Aside to him. ‘Tis not necessary he shou’d be seen yet, he may spoil _Leander’s_ Plot. [Aside. Sir _Cred._ Oh, thank ye, dear _Lodwick_,--let me escape this bout, and if ever the Fool turn Physician again, may he be choak’d with his own _Tetrachymagogon_. _Wit._ Go, haste and undress you, whilst I’ll to _Lucia_. [Exeunt _Lod._ and Sir _Cred._ As _Wittmore_ is going out at one Door, enter Sir _Patient_ and _Leander_ at the other Door. _Lean._ Hah, _Wittmore_ there! he must not see my Uncle yet. [Puts Sir _Pat._ back. [Exit _Wit._ Sir _Pat._ Nay, Sir, never detain me, I’ll to my Lady, is this your Demonstration?--Was ever so virtuous a Lady--Well, I’ll to her, and console her poor Heart; ah, the Joy ‘twill bring her to see my Resurrection!--I long to surprize her. [Going off cross the Stage. _Lean._ Hold, Sir, I think she’s coming,--blest sight, and with her _Wittmore_! [Puts Sir _Pat._ back to the Door. Enter Lady _Fancy_ and _Wittmore_. Sir _Pat._ Hah, what’s this?