Bel.  This is a swinging Wonder—­but are there store of Mad-men there, Sir?

Bea.  That’s another Rarity to see a Man run out of his Wits.

Noi.  Marry, Sir, the wiser they I say.

Bea.  Pray, Sir, what store of Miracles have you at St. Omers?

Bel.  None, Sir, since that of the wonderful Salamanca Doctor, who was both here and there at the same Instant of time.

Bea.  How, Sir? why, that’s impossible.

Bel.  That was the Wonder, Sir, because ’twas impossible.

Noi.  But ’twas a greater, Sir, that ’twas believed.

    Enter L.  Fulb. and Pert, Sir Cau. and Sir Feeb.

Sir Feeb.  Enough, enough, Sir Cautious, we apprehend one another.  Mr. Bearjest, your Uncle here and I have struck the Bargain, the Wench is yours with three thousand Pound present, and something more after Death, which your Uncle likes well.

Bea.  Does he so, Sir?  I’m beholding to him; then ’tis not a Pin matter whether I like or not, Sir.

Sir Feeb.  How, Sir, not like my Daughter Dye?

Bea.  Oh, Lord, Sir,—­die or live, ’tis all one for that, Sir—­I’ll stand to the Bargain my Uncle makes.

Pert.  Will you so, Sir? you’ll have very good luck if you do.
          
                                                [Aside.

Bea.  Prithee hold thy Peace, my Lady’s Woman.

L. Ful.  Sir, I beg your pardon for not waiting on you to Church—­
I knew you wou’d be private.

Enter Let_. fine in Jewels_.

Sir Feeb.  You honour us too highly now, Madam.
                                 [Presents his Wife, who salutes her.

L. Ful.  Give you Joy, my dear Leticia!  I find, Sir, you were resolved for Youth, Wit and Beauty.

Sir Feeb.  Ay, ay, Madam, to the Comfort of many a hoping Coxcomb:  but Lette,—­Rogue Lette—­thou wo’t not make me free o’th’ City a second time, wo’t thou entice the Rogues with the Twire and the wanton Leer —­the amorous Simper that cries, come, kiss me—­then the pretty round Lips are pouted out—­he, Rogue, how I long to be at ’em!—­well, she shall never go to Church more, that she shall not.

L. Ful.  How, Sir, not to Church, the chiefest Recreation of a City Lady?

Sir Feeb.  That’s all one, Madam, that tricking and dressing, and prinking and patching, is not your Devotion to Heaven, but to the young Knaves that are lick’d and comb’d and are minding you more than the Parson—­ods bobs, there are more Cuckolds destin’d in the Church, than are made out of it.

Sir Cau.  Hah, ha, ha, he tickles ye, i’faith, Ladies. [To his Lady.

Bel.  Not one chance look this way—­and yet
I can forgive her lovely Eyes,
Because they look not pleas’d with all this Ceremony;
And yet methinks some sympathy in Love
Might this way glance their Beams—­I cannot hold—­
Sir, is this fair Lady my Aunt?