Chapter 40

_Enter Sir_ Feeble, Leticia, _and_ Phillis.

_Let_. Ah, _Phillis_! I am fainting with my Fears, Hast thou no comfort for me?

[_He undresses to his Gown_.

Sir _Feeb_. Why, what art doing there--fiddle fadling--adod, you young Wenches are so loth to come to--but when your hand’s in, you have no mercy upon us poor Husbands.

_Let_. Why do you talk so, Sir?

Sir _Feeb_. Was it anger’d at the Fool’s Prattle? tum a-me, tum a-me, I’ll undress it, effags, I will--Roguy.

_Let_. You are so wanton, Sir, you make me blush--I will not go to bed, unless you’ll promise me--

Sir _Feeb_. No bargaining, my little Hussey--what, you’ll tie my hands behind me, will you? [_She goes to the Table_.

_Let_.--What shall I do?--assist me, gentle Maid, Thy Eyes methinks put on a little hope.

_Phil_. Take Courage, Madam--you guess right--be confident.

Sir _Feeb_. No whispering, Gentlewoman--and putting Tricks into her head; that shall not cheat me of another Night--Look on that silly little round Chitty-face--look on those smiling roguish loving Eyes there--look--look how they laugh, twire, and tempt--he, Rogue--I’ll buss ‘em there, and here, and every where--ods bods--away, this is fooling and spoiling of a Man’s Stomach, with a bit here, and a bit there--to Bed--to Bed--

[_As she is at the Toilet, he looks over her shoulder, and sees her Face in the Glass_.

_Let_. Go you first, Sir, I will but stay to say my Prayers, which are that Heaven wou’d deliver me. [_Aside_.

Sir _Feeb_. Say thy Prayers!--What, art thou mad! Prayers upon thy Wedding-night! a short Thanksgiving or so--but Prayers quoth a--’Sbobs, you’ll have time enough for that, I doubt--

_Le_. I am asham’d to undress before you, Sir; go to Bed--

Sir _Feeb_. What, was it asham’d to shew its little white Foots, and its little round Bubbies--well, I’ll go, I’ll go--I cannot think on’t, no I cannot--

[_Going towards the Bed_, Bellmour _comes forth from between the Curtains, his Coat off, his Shirt bloody, a Dagger in his hand, and his Disguise off_.

_Bel_. Stand--

Sir _Feeb_. Ah--

_Let_. and _Phil_. [_squeak_]--Oh, Heavens! --why, is it _Bellmour_? [_Aside to_ Phil.

_Bel_. Go not to Bed, I guard this sacred Place, And the Adulterer dies that enters here.

Sir _Feeb_. Oh--why do I shake?--sure I’m a Man, what art thou?

_Bel_. I am the wrong’d, the lost and murder’d _Bellmour_.

Sir _Feeb_. O Lord! it is the same I saw last night--Oh!--hold thy dread Vengeance--pity me, and hear me--Oh! a Parson--a Parson--what shall I do--Oh! where shall I hide my self?

_Bel_. I’th’ utmost Borders of the Earth I’ll find thee-- Seas shall not hide thee, nor vast Mountains guard thee: Even in the depth of Hell I’ll find thee out, And lash thy filthy and adulterous Soul.

Sir _Feeb_. Oh! I am dead, I’m dead; will no Repentence save me? ‘twas that young Eye that tempted me to sin; Oh!--

_Bel_. See, fair Seducer, what thou’st made me do; Look on this bleeding Wound, it reach’d my Heart, To pluck my dear tormenting Image thence, When News arriv’d that thou hadst broke thy Vow.

Sir _Feeb_. Oh Lord! oh! I’m glad he’s dead though.

_Let_. Oh, hide that fatal Wound, my tender Heart faints with a Sight so horrid! [_Seems to Weep_.

Sir _Feeb_. So, she’ll clear her self, and leave me in the Devil’s Clutches.

_Bel_. You’ve both offended Heaven, and must repent or die.

Sir _Feeb_. Ah,--I do confess I was an old Fool,--bewitcht with Beauty, besotted with Love, and do repent most heartily.

_Bel_. No, you had rather yet go on in Sin: Thou wou’dst live on, and be a baffled Cuckold.

Sir _Feeb_. Oh, not for the World, Sir! I am convinc’d and mortifi’d.

_Bel_. Maintain her fine, undo thy Peace to please her, and still be Cuckol’d on,--believe her,--trust her, and be Cuckol’d still.

Sir _Feeb_. I see my Folly--and my Age’s Dotage--and find the Devil was in me--yet spare my Age--ah! spare me to repent.

_Bel_. If thou repent’st, renounce her, fly her sight;-- Shun her bewitching Charms, as thou wou’dst Hell, Those dark eternal Mansions of the dead-- Whither I must descend.

Sir _Feeb_. Oh--wou’d he were gone!--

_Bel_. Fly--be gone--depart, vanish for ever from her to some more safe and innocent Apartment.

Sir _Feeb_. Oh, that’s very hard!--

[_He goes back trembling_, Bellmour _follows in with his Dagger up; both go out_.

_Let_. Blest be this kind Release, and yet methinks it grieves me to consider how the poor old Man is frighted.

[Bellmour _re-enters, puts on his Coat_.

_Bel_.--He’s gone, and lock’d himself into his Chamber-- And now, my dear _Leticia_, let us fly--

_Despair till now did my wild Heart invade, But pitying Love has the rough Storm allay’d_.

[_Exeunt_.