JEREMY, SIR SAMPSON LEGEND, _with a_ LAWYER.
SIR SAMP. D’ye see, Mr. Buckram, here’s the paper signed with his own
hand.
BUCK. Good, sir. And the conveyance is ready drawn in this box, if he
be ready to sign and seal.
SIR SAMP. Ready, body o’ me? He must be ready. His sham-sickness
shan’t excuse him. Oh, here’s his scoundrel. Sirrah, where’s your
master?
JERE. Ah sir, he’s quite gone.
SIR SAMP. Gone! What, he is not dead?
JERE. No, sir, not dead.
SIR SAMP. What, is he gone out of town, run away, ha? has he tricked me?
Speak, varlet.
JERE. No, no, sir, he’s safe enough, sir, an he were but as sound, poor
gentleman. He is indeed here, sir, and not here, sir.
SIR SAMP. Hey day, rascal, do you banter me? Sirrah, d’ye banter me?
Speak, sirrah, where is he? for I will find him.
JERE. Would you could, sir, for he has lost himself. Indeed, sir, I
have a’most broke my heart about him—I can’t refrain tears when I think
of him, sir: I’m as melancholy for him as a passing-bell, sir, or a horse
in a pound.
SIR SAMP. A pox confound your similitudes, sir. Speak to be understood,
and tell me in plain terms what the matter is with him, or I’ll crack
your fool’s skull.
JERE. Ah, you’ve hit it, sir; that’s the matter with him, sir: his
skull’s cracked, poor gentleman; he’s stark mad, sir.
SIR SAMP. Mad!
BUCK. What, is he _non compos_?
JERE. Quite _non compos_, sir.
BUCK. Why, then, all’s obliterated, Sir Sampson, if he be _non compos
mentis_; his act and deed will be of no effect, it is not good in law.
SIR SAMP. Oons, I won’t believe it; let me see him, sir. Mad—I’ll make
him find his senses.
JERE. Mr. Scandal is with him, sir; I’ll knock at the door.
[_Goes to the scene_, _which opens_.]