Rut, Polish, Lady, Keep, Placentia.

    Rut. Whence? what's he call'd?

    Pol. Doctor, do all you can,
I pray you, and beseech you, for my charge here.

    Lad. She's my tendring Gossip, loves my Neice.

    Pol. I know you can do all things, what you please, Sir,
For a young Damsel, my good Ladies Neice here!
You can do what you list.

    Rut. Peace Tiffany.

    Pol. Especially in this new Case o' the Dropsie.
The Gentlewoman (I do fear) is leven'd.

    Rut. Leven'd? what's that?

    Pol. Puft, blown, and't please your Worship.

    Rut. What! Dark by darker? What is blown?
puff'd? speak English --

    Pol. Tainted (and't please you) some do call it.
She swells, and swells so with it. -- Rut. Give her vent,
If she do swell. A Gimblet must be had:
It is a Tympanites she is troubled with;
There are three kinds: The first is Ana-sarca
Under the Flesh a Tumour: that's not hers.
The second is Ascites, or Aquosus,
A watry humour: that's not hers neither.
But Tympanites (which we call the Drum)
A wind Bombs in her Belly, must be unbrac'd,
And with a Faucet, or a Peg, let out,
And she'll do well: get her a Husband.

    Pol. Yes,
I say so, Mr. Doctor, and bedtimes too.

    Lad. As
Soon as we can: let her bear up to day,
Laugh, and keep company, at gleek or Crimp.

    Pol. Your Ladiship says right, Crimp sure will cure her.

    Rut. Yes, and gleek too; peace Gossip tittle-tattle,
She must to morrow down into the Country,
Some Twenty miles; A Coach and six brave Horses:
Take the fresh Air a Month there, or five Weeks;
And then return a Bride up to the Town,
For any Husband i'the Hemisphere
To chuck at; when she has dropt her Timpany.

    Pol. Must she then drop it?

    Rut. Thence, 'tis call'd a Dropsie.
The Timpanites is one spice of it;
A Toy, a thing of nothing, a meer Vapour:
I'll blow't away.

    Lad. Needle, get you the Coach
Ready against to morrow Morning.     Nee. Yes madam.

    Lad. I'll down with her my self, and thank the Doctor.

    Pol. We shall all thank him. But, dear Madam, think,
Resolve upon a Man this day.

    Lad. I ha' don't.
To tell you true, (sweet Gossip) here is none
But Master Doctor, he shall be o'the Counsel:
The Man I have design'd her to, indeed,
Is Master Practise: he's a neat young Man,
Forward, and growing up in a profession!
like to be some body, if the Hall stand!
And Pleading hold! A prime young Lawyers Wife,
Is a right happy Fortune.

    Rut. And she bringing
So plentiful a Portion, they may live
Like King and Queen at Common Law together!
Sway Judges; guide the Courts; command the Clerks;
And fright the Evidence; rule at their Pleasures,
Like petty Soveraigns in all Cases.

    Pol. O, that
Will be a work of time; she may be old
Before her Husband rise to a chief Judge;
And all her flower be gone. No, no, a Lady
O' the first Head I'd have her; and in Court:
The Lady Silk-worm, a Diaphanous Lady:
And be a Vi-countess to carry all
Before her, (as we say) her Gentleman-Usher:
And cast off Pages, bare, to bid her Aunt
Welcom unto her honour at her Lodgings.

    Rut. You say well, Ladies Gossip; if my Lady
Could admit that, to have her Neice precede her.

    Lad. For that, I must consult mine own Ambition,
My zealous Gossip.

    Pol. O, you shall precede her:
You shall be a Countess! Sir Diaphanous
Shall get you made a Countess! Here he comes;
Has my Voice certain: O fine Courtier!
O blessed man! the bravery prickt out,
To make my dainty charge a Vi-countess:
And my good Lady, her Aunt, Countess at large!