Lady Boun. What! would you wish your husband sick?

Mrs. Sul. Not of a sore leg, of all things.

Lady Boun. Well, good woman, go to the pantry, get your bellyful of victuals, then I’ll give you a receipt of diet-drink for your husband. But d’ye hear, goody, you must not let your husband move too much?

Wom. No, no, madam, the poor man’s inclinable enough to lie still.

[Exit.

Lady Boun. Well, daughter Sullen, though you laugh, I have done miracles about the country here with my receipts.

Mrs. Sul. Miracles indeed, if they have cured anybody; but I believe, madam, the patient’s faith goes farther toward the miracle than your prescription.

Lady Boun. Fancy helps in some cases; but there’s your husband, who has as little fancy as anybody, I brought him from death’s door.

Mrs. Sul. I suppose, madam, you made him drink plentifully of ass’s milk.

Enter Dorinda, who runs to Mrs. Sullen.

Dor. News, dear sister! news! news!

Enter Archer, running.

Arch. Where, where is my Lady Bountiful?—Pray, which is the old lady of you three?

Lady Boun. I am.

Arch. O madam, the fame of your ladyship’s charity, goodness, benevolence, skill and ability, have drawn me hither to implore your ladyship’s help in behalf of my unfortunate master, who is this moment breathing his last.

Lady Boun. Your master! where is he?

Arch. At your gate, madam. Drawn by the appearance of your handsome house to view it nearer, and walking up the avenue within five paces of the court-yard, he was taken ill of a sudden with a sort of I know not what, but down he fell, and there he lies.

Lady Boun. Here, Scrub! Gipsy! all run, get my easy-chair down stairs, put the gentleman in it, and bring him in quickly! quickly!

Arch. Heaven will reward your ladyship for this charitable act.

Lady Boun. Is your master used to these fits?

Arch. O yes, madam, frequently: I have known him have five or six of a night.

Lady Boun. What’s his name?

Arch. Lord, madam, he’s a-dying! a minute’s care or neglect may save or destroy his life.