_Plot._ Dere it is, Sir. It be commonly called de _Lapis Lydius Virginitatis_, or touch-stone of virginity. [_gives him a vial._ _Foss._ It has the smell of your common hart's-horn. But all your volatile spirits have a near resemblance. _Plot._ Right, Sir. De distillation be made from the _Hippomanes_ of a young mare. When a deflower'd virgin take ten drops, she will faint and sneeze, and de large red spot appear on the cheek; which we call de spot of infamy. All de young bridegroom make de experiment. De archbishop did make obligation to de nun to take it every ninth month. And I fly for the hurlyburly it make. Enter HUGH. _Hugh._ Sir here is a patient in a chair. _Foss._ Doctor Lubomirski, let me conduct you into my study, where we will farther discuss the wonderful virtues of this liquor. Tell the patient I will attend him this instant. [_Exeunt Plotwell and Fossile._ Enter UNDERPLOT in a chair like a sick man. _Hugh._ The doctor will wait upon you immediately. [_Exit Hugh._ _Underp._ I dogg'd Plotwell to this door in a doctor's habit. If he has admittance as a doctor, why not I as a patient? Now for a lucky decision of our wager! If I can't succeed myself, I will at least spoil his intrigue. Enter FOSSILE. _Underp._ Ah! ah! have you no place? Ah! where can I repose a little? I was taken suddenly. Ah! ah! 'tis happy I was so near the house of an eminent physician. _Foss._ Rest yourself upon that couch. _Underp._ If I lay a few minutes cover'd up warm in a bed, I believe I might recover. [_Fossile feels his pulse. Plotwell peeps._ _Plot._ Underplot in disguise! I'll be his doctor, and cure him of these frolicks. [_aside._ _Foss._ What are your symptoms, Sir? a very tempestuous pulse, I profess! _Underp._ Violent head-ach, ah! ah! _Foss._ All this proceeds from the fumes of the kitchen, the stomachic digester wants reparation for the better concoction of your aliment: But, Sir, is your pain pungitive, tensive, gravitive, or pulsatory? _Plot._ All together, ah! _Foss._ Impossible Sir; but I have an eminent physician now in the house, he shall consult. Doctor Lubomirski, here is a person in a most violent cephalalgy, a terrible case! Enter PLOTWELL. _Foss._ Feel his pulse. [_Plotwell feels it._] You feel it, Sir, strong, hard and labouring. _Plot._ Great plenitude, Sir. _Foss._ Feel his belly, Sir; a great tension and heat of the abdomen--A hearty man, his muscles are torose; how soon are the strongest humbled by diseases! let us retire, and consult. Enter SARSNET in haste. _Sars._ My mistress approves your design, bear it out bravely, perhaps I shall have a sudden opportunity of conveying you into her bed-chamber, counterfeit a fainting fit and rely upon me. [_Exit._ _Underp._ As yet I find I am undiscover'd by Plotwell; neither is his intrigue in such forwardness as mine, though he made a fair push for it before me. [_aside._