_Mrs. Bri_. You see, lovee, what you have brought on yourself.


_Re-enter_ SERVANT.

_Ser_. Your worship!

_Just_. Stay, John; did you perceive anything in my chocolate cup
this morning?

_Ser_. Nothing, your worship, unless it was a little grounds.

_Just_. What colour were they?

_Ser_. Blackish, your worship.

_Just_. Ay, arsenic, black arsenic!--Why don't you run for Dr.
Rosy, you rascal?

_Ser_. Now, sir?

_Mrs. Bri_. Oh, lovee, you may be sure it is in vain; let him run
for the lawyer to witness your will, my life.

_Just_. Zounds! go for the doctor, you scoundrel. You are all
confederate murderers.

_Ser_. Oh, here he is, your worship. [_Exit_.]