_Mrs. Bri_. What, my dear, will you submit to be cured by a quack
nostrum-monger? For my part, as much as I love you, I had rather
follow you to your grave than see you owe your life to any but a
regular-bred physician.

_Just_. I'm sensible of your affection, dearest; and be assured
nothing consoles me in my melancholy situation so much as the thoughts
of leaving you behind.


_Re-enter_ DOCTOR ROSY, _with_ LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR
_disguised_.

_Rosy_. Great luck; met him passing by the door.

_O'Con_. Metto dowsei pulsum.

_Rosy_. He desires me to feel your pulse.

_Just_. Can't he speak English?

_Rosy_. Not a word.

_O'Con_. Palio vivem mortem soonem.

_Rosy_. He says you have not six hours to live.

_Just_. O mercy! does he know my distemper?