Chapter 37

_Enter_ Bellmour _at the door, knocks, and enter to him from the House_, Phillis.

_Phil_. Oh, are you come, Sir? I’ll call my Lady down.

_Bel_. Oh, haste, the Minutes fly--leave all behind. And bring _Leticia_ only to my Arms. [_A noise of People_. --Hah, what noise is that? ‘Tis coming this way, I tremble with my fears--hah, Death and the Devil, ’.is he--

_Enter Sir_ Feeble _and his Men arm’d, goes to the door, knocks_.

Ay, ‘tis he, and I’m undone--what shall I do to kill him now? besides, the Sin wou’d put me past all Hopes of pardoning.

Sir _Feeb_. A damn’d Rogue to deceive me thus.--

_Bel_. Hah--see, by Heaven _Leticia_, Oh, we are ruin’d!

Sir _Feeb_. Hum--what’s here, two Women?-- [_Stands a little off_.

_Enter_ Leticia _and_ Phillis _softly, undrest, with a Box_.

_Let_. Where are you, my best Wishes? Lord of my Vows--and Charmer of my Soul? Where are you?

_Bel_. Oh, Heavens!-- [_Draws his Sword half-way_.

Sir _Feeb_. Hum, who’s here? My Gentlewoman--she’s monstrous kind of the sudden. But whom is’t meant to? [_Aside_.

_Let_. Give me your hand, my Love, my Life, my All--Alas! where are you?

Sir _Feeb_. Hum--no, no, this is not to me--I am jilted, cozen’d, cuckolded, and so forth.-- [_Groping, she takes hold of Sir_ Feeb.

_Let_. Oh, are you here? indeed you frighted me with your Silence--here, take these Jewels, and let us haste away.

Sir _Feeb_. Hum--are you thereabouts, Mistress? was I sent away with a Sham-Plot for this!--She cannot mean it to me. [_Aside_.

_Let_. Will you not speak?--will you not answer me?--do you repent already?--before Enjoyment are you cold and false?

Sir _Feeb_. Hum, before Enjoyment--that must be me. Before Injoyment-- Ay, ay, ‘tis I--I see a little Prolonging a Woman’s Joy, sets an Edge upon her Appetite. [_Merrily_.

_Let_. What means my Dear? shall we not haste away?

Sir _Feeb_. Haste away! there ‘tis again--No--’tis not me she means: what, at your Tricks and Intrigues already?--Yes, yes, I am destin’d a Cuckold--

_Let_. Say, am I not your Wife? can you deny me?

Sir _Feeb_. Wife! adod, ‘tis I she means--’tis I she means--[_Merrily_.

_Let_. Oh _Bellmour, Bellmour_.

[_Sir _Feeb_. starts back from her hands_.

Sir _Feeb_. Hum--what’s that--_Bellmour_!

_Let_. Hah! Sir _Feeble_!--he would not, Sir, have us’d me thus unkindly.

Sir _Feeb_. Oh--I’m glad ‘tis no worse--_Bellmour_, quoth a! I thought the Ghost was come again.

_Phil_. Why did you not speak, Sir, all this while?--my Lady weeps with your Unkindness.

Sir _Feeb_. I did but hold my peace, to hear how prettily she prattled Love: But, fags, you are naught to think of a young Fellow--ads bobs, you are now.

_Let_. I only say--he wou’d not have been so unkind to me.

Sir _Feeb_. But what makes ye out at this Hour, and with these Jewels?

_Phil_. Alas, Sir, we thought the City was in Arms, and packt up our things to secure ‘em, if there had been a necessity for Flight. For had they come to plundering once, they wou’d have begun with the rich Aldermen’s Wives, you know, Sir.

Sir _Feeb_. Ads bobs, and so they would--but there was no Arms, nor Mutiny--where’s _Francis_?

_Bel_. Here, Sir.

Sir _Feeb_. Here, Sir--why, what a story you made of a Meeting in the Hall, and--Arms, and--a--the Devil of any thing was stirring, but a couple of old Fools, that sat gaping and waiting for one another’s business--

_Bel_. Such a Message was brought me, Sir.

Sir _Feeb_. Brought! thou’rt an Ass, _Francis_--but no more--come, come, let’s to bed--

_Let_. To Bed, Sir! what, by Day-light?--for that’s hasting on--I wou’d not for the World--the Night wou’d hide my Blushes--but the Day--wou’d let me see my self in your Embraces.

Sir _Feeb_. Embraces, in a Fiddlestick; why, are we not married?

_Let_. ‘Tis true, Sir, and Time will make me more familiar with you, but yet my Virgin Modesty forbids it. I’ll to _Diana’s_ Chamber, the Night will come again.

Sir _Feeb_. For once you shall prevail; and this damn’d Jant has pretty well mortified me:--a Pox of your Mutiny, _Francis_.--Come, I’ll conduct thee to _Diana_, and lock thee in, that I may have thee safe, Rogue.--

_We’ll give young Wenches leave to whine and blush, And fly those Blessings which--ads bobs, they wish_.

[_Exeunt_.