ah, what's that?

L. _Fan._ Heavens! what's the matter? we are destin'd to discovery.
[She runs to Sir _Patient_, and leaves the Door still fast.

Sir _Pat._ What's that I say, what's that? let me see, let me see, what
ringing's that, Oh, let me see what 'tis.
[Strives to get up, she holds him down.

L. _Fan._ Oh, now I see my Fate's inevitable! Alas, that ever I was born
to see't.
[Weeps.

_Wit._ Death, she'll tell him I am here: Nay, he must know't, a Pox of
all Invention and Mechanicks, and he were damn'd that first contriv'd a
Watch.

Sir _Pat._ Hah, dost weep?--why dost weep? I say, what Noise is that?
what ringing? hah.--

L. _Fan._ 'Tis that, 'tis that, my Dear, that makes me weep. Alas,
I never hear this fatal Noise, but some dear Friend dies.

Sir _Pat._ Hah, dies! Oh, that must be I, ay, ay, Oh.

L. _Fan._ I've heard it, Sir, this two Days, but wou'd not tell you of
it.

Sir _Pat._ Hah! heard it these two Days! Oh, what is't a
Death-watch?--hah.--

L. _Fan._ Ay, Sir, a Death-watch, a certain Larum Death-watch, a thing
that has warn'd our Family this hundred Years, oh,--I'm the most undone
Woman!

_Wit._ A Blessing on her for a dear dissembling Jilt--Death and the
Devil, will it never cease?

Sir _Pat._ A Death-watch! ah, 'tis so, I've often heard of these
things--methinks it sounds as if 'twere under the Bed.--
[Offers to look, she holds him.

L. _Fan._ You think so, Sir, but that 'tis about the Bed is my Grief; it
therefore threatens you: Oh wretched Woman!

Sir _Pat._ Ay, ay, I'm too happy in a Wife to live long: Well, I will
settle my House at _Hogsdowne_, with the Land about it, which is 500_l._
a Year upon thee, live or die,--do not grieve.--
[Lays himself down.

L. _Fan._ Oh, I never had more Cause; come try to sleep, your Fate may
be diverted--whilst I'll to Prayers for your dear Health.-- [Covers him,
draws the Curtains.] I have almost run out all my stock of Hypocrisy,
and that hated Art now fails me.--Oh all ye Powers that favour distrest
Lovers, assist us now, and I'll provide against your future Malice.
[She makes Signs to _Wittmore_, he peeps.

_Wit._ I'm impatient of Freedom, yet so much Happiness as I but now
injoy'd without this part of Suffering had made me too blest.--Death and
Damnation! what curst luck have I?

[Makes Signs to her to open the Door: whilst he creeps softly from
under the Bed to the Table, by which going to raise himsel