Arch. In very good hands, sir. You were taken just now with one of your old fits, under the trees, just by this good lady’s house; her ladyship had you taken in, and has miraculously brought you to yourself, as you see.

Aim. I am so confounded with shame, madam, that I can now only beg pardon; and refer my acknowledgments for your ladyship’s care till an opportunity offers of making some amends. I dare be no longer troublesome.—Martin! give two guineas to the servants.

[Going.

Dor. Sir, you may catch cold by going so soon into the air; you don’t look, sir, as if you were perfectly recovered.

[Here Archer talks to Lady Bountiful in dumb show.

Aim. That I shall never be, madam; my present illness is so rooted that I must expect to carry it to my grave.

Mrs. Sul. Don’t despair, sir; I have known several in your distemper shake it off with a fortnight’s physic.

Lady Boun. Come, sir, your servant has been telling me that you’re apt to relapse if you go into the air: your good manners shan’t get the better of ours—you shall sit down again, sir. Come, sir, we don’t mind ceremonies in the country—here, sir, my service t’ye.—You shall taste my water; ’tis a cordial I can assure you, and of my own making—drink it off, sir.—[Aimwell drinks.] And how d’ye find yourself now, sir?

Aim. Somewhat better—though very faint still.

Lady Boun. Ay, ay, people are always faint after these fits.—Come, girls, you shall show the gentleman the house.—’Tis but an old family building, sir; but you had better walk about, and cool by degrees, than venture immediately into the air. You’ll find some tolerable pictures.—Dorinda, show the gentleman the way. I must go to the poor woman below.

[Exit.

Dor. This way, sir.

Aim. Ladies, shall I beg leave for my servant to wait on you, for he understands pictures very well?

Mrs. Sul. Sir, we understand originals as well as he does pictures, so he may come along.

[Exeunt all but Scrub, Aimwell leading Dorinda.

Enter Foigard.

Foi. Save you, Master Scrub!

Scrub. Sir, I won’t be saved your way—I hate a priest, I abhor the French, and I defy the devil. Sir, I’m a bold Briton, and will spill the last drop of my blood to keep out popery and slavery.

Foi. Master Scrub, you would put me down in politics, and no I would be speaking with Mrs. Shipsy.

Scrub. Good Mr. Priest, you can’t speak with her; she’s sick, sir, she’s gone abroad, sir, she’s—dead two months ago, sir.