Act 2 — Scene II. Changes to a Chamber.
Reading edition
Enter Sir Patient as before, Lady Fancy, Wittmore, Maundy, and Roger with things.
Sir Pat. Maundy, fetch my Clothes, I’ll dress me and out of Town instantly,—persuade me not. To Wit.
Roger, is the Coach ready, Roger?
Rog. Yes, Sir, with four Horses.
L. Fan. Out of Town! Oh, I’m undone then, there will be no hopes of ever seeing Wittmore. Aside. —Maundy, oh, help me to contrive my stay, or I’m a dead Woman.—Sir, sure you cannot go and leave your Affairs in Town.
Sir Pat. Affairs! what Affairs?
L. Fan. Why, your Daughter’s Marriage, Sir:—and—Sir,—not, Sir, but that I desire of all things in the World the Blessing of being alone with you, far from the Noise and leud Disorders of this filthy Town.
Sir Pat. Most excellent Woman! ah, thou art too good for sinful Man, and I will therefore remove thee from the Temptations of it.—Maundy, my Clothes—Mr. Fainlove, I will leave Isabella with my Lady Fidget, my Sister, who shall to morrow see you married, to prevent farther Inconveniences.
L. Fan. What shall I do?
Maun. Madam, I have a Design, which considering his Spleen, must this time do our Business,—’tis— Whispers.
L. Fan. I like it well, about it instantly, hah— Ex. Maundy.
Alas, Sir, what ails your Face? good Heaven,—look, Roger.
Sir Pat. My Face! why, what ails my Face? hah!
L. Fan. See, Mr. Fainlove, oh, look on my Dear, is he not strangely alter’d?
Wit. Most wonderfully.
Sir Pat. Alter’d, hah—why, where, why, how alter’d?—hah, alter’d say you?
Wit. Lord, how wildly he stares!
Sir Pat. Hah, stare wildly!
Rog. Are you not very sick, Sir?
L. Fan. Sick! oh, Heavens forbid!—How does my dearest Love?
Sir Pat. Methinks I feel myself not well o’th’ sudden—ah—a kind of shivering seizes all my Limbs,—and am I so much chang’d?
Wit. All over, Sir, as big again as you were.
L. Fan. Your Face is frightfully blown up, and your dear Eyes just starting from your Head; oh, I shall sound with the apprehension on’t. Falls into Wittmore’s Arms.
Sir Pat. My Head and Eyes so big, say you: oh, I’m wondrous sick o’th’ sudden,—all over say you—oh, oh—Ay, I perceive it now, my Senses fail me too.
L. Fan. How, Sir, your Senses fail you?
Wit. That’s a very bad sign, believe me.
Sir Pat. Oh, ay, for I can neither feel nor see this mighty growth you speak of. Falls into a Chair, with great signs of Disorder.
Wit. Alas, I’m sorry for that, Sir.
Rog. Sure, ’tis impossible, I’ll run and fetch a Glass, Sir. Offers to go.
L. Fan. Oh, stay, I wou’d not for the world he should see what a Monster he is,—and is like to be before to morrow. Aside.
Rog. I’ll fit him with a Glass,—I’ll warrant ye, it shall advance our Design. Exit Roger.
Enter Maundy with the Clothes, she starts.
Maun. Good Heaven, what ails you, Sir?
Sir Pat. Oh—oh—’tis so.
Maun. Lord, how he’s swoln! see how his Stomach struts.
Sir Pat. Ah, ’tis true, though I perceive it not.
Maun. Not perceive it, Sir! put on your Clothes and be convinc’d,—try ’em, Sir. She pulls off his Gown, and puts on his Doublet and Coat, which come not near by a handful or more.
Sir Pat. Ah, it needs not,—mercy upon me!— Falls back.
I’m lost, I’m gone! Oh Man, what art thou but a Flower? I am poison’d, this talking Lady’s Breath’s infectious; methought I felt the Contagion steal into my Heart; send for my Physicians, and if I die I’ll swear she’s my Murderer: oh, see, see, how my trembling increases, oh, hold my Limbs, I die.—
Enter Roger with a magnifying Glass, shews him the Glass; he looks in it.
Rog. I’ll warrant I’ll shew his Face as big as a Bushel. Aside.
Sir Pat. Oh, oh,—I’m a dead Man, have me to Bed, I die away, undress me instantly, send for my Physicians, I’m poison’d, my Bowels burn, I have within an Ætna, my Brains run round, Nature within me reels. They carry him out in a Chair.
Wit. And all the drunken Universe does run on Wheels, ha, ha, ha.
Ah, my dear Creature, how finely thou hast brought him to his Journy’s end!
L. Fan. There was no other way but this to have secur’d my Happiness with thee; there needs no more than that you come anon to the Garden Back-gate, where you shall find admittance;—Sir Patient is like to lie alone to night.
Wit. Till then ’twill be a thousand Ages.
L. Fan. At Games of Love Husbands to cheat is fair, ’Tis the Gallant we play with on the square. Exeunt severally.