Chapter 33

Women at the Table_.

_Enter to them Sir_ Feeble Fainwou’d.

Sir _Feeb_. What’s here? what’s here? the prating Women still. Ods bobs, what, not in Bed yet? for shame of Love, _Leticia_.

_Let_. For shame of Modesty, Sir; you wou’d not have me go to Bed before all this Company.

Sir _Feeb_. What, the Women! why, they must see you laid, ‘tis the fashion.

_Let_. What, with a Man? I wou’d not for the World. Oh, _Bellmour_, where art thou with all thy promised aid? [_Aside_.

_Dia_. Nay, Madam, we shou’d see you laid indeed.

_Let_. First in my Grave, _Diana_.

Sir _Feeb_. Ods bobs, here’s a Compact amongst the Women--High Treason against the Bridegroom--therefore, Ladies, withdraw, or, adod, I’ll lock you all in. [_Throws open his Gown, they run all away, he locks the Door_.

So, so, now we’re alone, _Leticia_--off with this foolish Modesty, and Night Gown, and slide into my Arms. [_She runs from him_. H’e’, my little Puskin--what, fly me, my coy _Daphne_, [_He pursues her. Knocking_. Hah--who’s that knocks--who’s there?--

_Bel_. [_Within_.] ‘Tis I, Sir, ‘tis I, open the door presently.

Sir _Feeb_. Why, what’s the matter, is the House o-fire?

_Bel_. [_Within_.] Worse, Sir, worse--

[_He opens the door, _Bellmour_ enters with the Watch in his hand_.

_Let_. ‘Tis _Bellmour’s_ Voice!

_Bel_. Oh, Sir, do you know this Watch?

Sir _Feeb_. This Watch!

_Bel_. Ay, Sir, this Watch?

Sir _Feeb_. This Watch!--why, prithee, why dost tell me of a Watch? ‘tis Sir _Cautious Fulbank’s_ Watch; what then, what a Pox dost trouble me with Watches? [_Offers to put him out, he returns_.

_Bel_. ‘Tis indeed his Watch, Sir, and by this Token he has sent for you, to come immediately to his House, Sir.

Sir _Feeb_. What a Devil, art mad, _Francis_? or is his Worship mad, or does he think me mad?--go, prithee tell him I’ll come to him to morrow. [_Goes to put him out_.

_Bel_. To morrow, Sir! why all our Throats may be cut before to morrow.

Sir _Feeb_. What sayst thou, Throat cut?

_Bel_. Why, the City’s up in Arms, Sir, and all the Aldermen are met at _Guild-Hall_; some damnable Plot, Sir.

Sir _Feeb_. Hah--Plot--the Aldermen met at _Guild-Hall!_--hum--why, let ’.m meet, I’ll not lose this Night to save the Nation.

_Let_. Wou’d you to bed, Sir, when the weighty Affairs of State require your Presence?

Sir _Feeb_.--Hum--met at _Guild-Hall_;--my Clothes, my Gown again, _Francis_, I’ll out--out! what, upon my Wedding-night? No--I’ll in. [_Putting on his Gown pausing, pulls it off again_.

_Let_. For shame, Sir, shall the Reverend Council of the City debate without you?

Sir _Feeb_. Ay, that’s true, that’s true; come truss again, _Francis_, truss again--yet now I think on’t, _Francis_, prithee run thee to the Hall, and tell ‘em ‘tis my Wedding-night, d’ye see, _Francis_; and let some body give my Voice for--

_Bel_. What, Sir?

Sir _Feeb_. Adod, I cannot tell; up in Arms, say you! why, let ‘em fight Dog, fight Bear; mun, I’ll to Bed--go--

_Let_. And shall his Majesty’s Service and his Safety lie unregarded for a slight Woman, Sir?

Sir _Feeb_. Hum, his Majesty!--come, haste, _Francis_, I’ll away, and call _Ralph_, and the Footmen, and bid ‘em arm; each Man shoulder his Musket, and advance his Pike--and bring my Artillery Implements quick--and let’s away: Pupsey--b’u’., Pupsey, I’ll bring it a fine thing yet before Morning, it may be--let’s away: I shall grow fond, and forget the business of the Nation--Come, follow me, _Francis_.--

[_Exit Sir_ Feeble, Bellmour _runs to_ Leticia.

_Bel_. Now, my _Leticia_, if thou e’er didst Love, If ever thou design’st to make me blest--Without delay fly this adulterous Bed.

Sir _Feeb_. Why, _Francis_, where are you, Knave? [_Sir _Feeb_. within_.

_Bel_. I must be gone, lest he suspect us--I’ll lose him, and return to thee immediately--get thy self ready.--

_Let_. I will not fail, my Love.

[_Exit_ Bellmour.

_Old Man forgive me--thou the Aggressor art, Who rudely forc’d the Hand without the Heart. She cannot from the Paths of Honour rove, Whose Guide’s Religion, and whose End is Love_.

[_Exit_.