Enter one of the Men Sir William fought with, and beat, with a Pistol in his hand, the Lady Hypocondria sees him, and on the sudden runs to the Man, and snatch∣es the Pistol out of his hand, the whilst the Man was in amaze at it, She Shoots him with his own Pistol, the noise of the Pistol brings in the Servants.
Hypocondria.
You Cowardly Rogue, do you take the advantage of sick∣ness to work your revenge, do you come when my Husband is not able to defend himself?
The Man falls, and sayes, O I am kill'd.
Hypocondria.
Kill'd? if you had a thousand lives, my single life would kill them all, rather than suffer my Husband to be murdered.
The Servants all the while stand at a distance, as being all afrighted.
Hypocondria.
You Company of dull dead statues, move for shame, and bear away this Villain, this murderous Villain.
Servants.
Where should we carry him Madam?
Hypocondria.
Why any where, cast him into a Ditch, there let him ly and rot, like Beasts without Butiall.
The mean while Sir William Lovewell having recovered his breath, which was spent in striving to get up from his Couch, but being very weak he could not.
Lovewell.
Carry him to a Justice, and bid the Justice dispose of him as he thinks fit, telling him of his crime.
Servants.
Let us search him, to see if he hath never another Pistol.
Lovewell.
Go you Cowards, and carry him away.
The Servants and Man goes out.
O this effeminate sickness hath disgraced me; O how like a worm a sick man is, which lyes so low, and is so shiftless, that any beast treads out his life?
Hypocondria.
Why, had you been in health and strength, it would have been no Honour to beat a Coward.
Lovewell.
He seem'd not such a Coward, but that he had some courage, or otherwise he would not have adventur'd himself alone into a House, wherein were many persons, which would have been his Enemies; but I am glad that you have the honour of his wounds, but it is a miracle to me, to see how valiantly you did behave your self, and yet by nature is so fearfull.
Hypocondria.
Mistake not Love; for true Love is only a fraid when it cannot help, but when it hath hopes to rescue what it loves, Mars is not Valianter.
Lovewell.
Well Wife, I owe my life to your love, and I shall account you as Pallas, that hath defended me with a prudent courage.
Hypocondria.
If you think I have done you service worthy a reward, pray give me a request.
Lovewell.
That I shall, if it be that life you have defended, what is it?