Bel.  You counsel well—­but yet to see her married! 
How every thought of that shocks all my Resolution!—­
But hang it, I’ll be resolute and saucy,
Despise a Woman who can use me ill,
And think my self above her.

Gay.  Why, now thou art thy self—­a Man again.  But see, they’re coming forth, now stand your ground.

Enter Sir Feeble, Sir Cautious, Bearjest, Noisey, Leticia
sad, Diana, Phillis. [Pass over the Stage.

Bel.  ’Tis she; support me, Charles, or I shall sink to Earth,
—­Methought in passing by she cast a scornful glance at me;
Such charming Pride I’ve seen upon her Eyes,
When our Love-Quarrels arm’d ’em with Disdain—­
I’ll after ’em, if I live she shall not ’scape me.
                            [Offers to go, Gay. holds him.

Gay.  Hold, remember you’re proscribed, And die if you are taken.

Bel.  I’ve done, and I will live, but he shall ne’er enjoy her.  —­Who’s yonder, Ralph, my trusty Confident?

Enter Ralph.

Now though I perish I must speak to him. 
—­Friend, what Wedding’s this?

Ral.  One that was never made in Heaven, Sir; ’Tis Alderman Fainwou’d, and Mrs. Leticia Bredwel.

Bel.  Bredwel—­I have heard of her,—­she was Mistress—­

Ral.  To fine Mr. Bellmour, Sir,—­ay, there was a Gentleman —­But rest his Soul—­he’s hang’d, Sir. [Weeps.

Bel.  How! hang’d?

Ral.  Hang’d, Sir, hang’d—­at the Hague in Holland.

Gay.  I heard some such News, but did not credit it.

Bel.  For what, said they, was he hang’d?

Ral.  Why, e’en for High Treason, Sir, he killed one of their Kings.

Gay.  Holland’s a Commonwealth, and is not rul’d by Kings.

Ral.  Not by one, Sir, but by a great many; this was a Cheesemonger —­they fell out over a Bottle of Brandy, went to Snicker Snee; Mr. Bellmour cut his Throat, and was hang’d for’t, that’s all, Sir.

Bel.  And did the young Lady believe this?

Ral.  Yes, and took on most heavily—­the Doctors gave her over—­and there was the Devil to do to get her to consent to this Marriage—­but her Fortune was small, and the hope of a Ladyship, and a Gold Chain at the Spittal Sermon, did the Business—­and so your Servant, Sir.
          
                                            [Ex.  Ralph.

Bel.  So, here’s a hopeful Account of my sweet self now.

Enter Post-man with Letters.

Post.  Pray, Sir, which is Sir Feeble Fainwou’d’s?

Bel.  What wou’d you with him, Friend?

Post.  I have a Letter here from the Hague for him.