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 ’em 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?