Sir Feeb.  Ay, that’s true, that’s true; come truss again, Francis, truss again—­yet now I think on’t, Francis, prithee run thee to the Hall, and tell ’em ’tis my Wedding-night, d’ye see, Francis; and let some body give my Voice for—­

Bel.  What, Sir?

Sir Feeb.  Adod, I cannot tell; up in Arms, say you! why, let ’em fight
Dog, fight Bear; mun, I’ll to Bed—­go—­

Let.  And shall his Majesty’s Service and his Safety lie unregarded for a slight Woman, Sir?

Sir Feeb.  Hum, his Majesty!—­come, haste, Francis, I’ll away, and call Ralph, and the Footmen, and bid ’em arm; each Man shoulder his Musket, and advance his Pike—­and bring my Artillery Implements quick—­and let’s away:  Pupsey—­b’u’y, Pupsey, I’ll bring it a fine thing yet before Morning, it may be—­let’s away:  I shall grow fond, and forget the business of the Nation—­Come, follow me, Francis.—­

[Exit Sir Feeble, Bellmour runs to Leticia.

Bel.  Now, my Leticia, if thou e’er didst Love, If ever thou design’st to make me blest—­Without delay fly this adulterous Bed.

Sir Feeb.  Why, Francis, where are you, Knave?
                                       [Sir Feeb_. within_.

Bel.  I must be gone, lest he suspect us—­I’ll lose him, and return to thee immediately—­get thy self ready.—­

Let.  I will not fail, my Love.

[Exit Bellmour.

Old Man forgive me—­thou the Aggressor art, Who rudely forc’d the Hand without the Heart.  She cannot from the Paths of Honour rove, Whose Guide’s Religion, and whose End is Love.

[Exit.

SCENE III. Changes to a Wash-house, or Out-House.

Enter with a Dark-lanthorn Bredwel disguis’d like a Devil,
leading Gayman.

Bred.  Stay here till I give notice of your coming.
                          [Exit Bredwel, leaves his Dark-Lanthorn.

Gay.  Kind Light, a little of your aid—­now must I be peeping, though my Curiosity should lose me all—­hah—­Zouns, what here—­a Hovel or a Hog-sty? hum, see the Wickedness of Man, that I should find no time to swear in, but just when I’m in the Devil’s Clutches.

Enter Pert, as an old Woman, with a Staff.

Old W.  Good Even to you, fair Sir.

Gay.  Ha—­defend me; if this be she, I must rival the Devil, that’s certain.

Old W.  Come, young Gentleman, dare not you venture?

Gay.  He must be as hot as Vesuvius that does—­I shall never earn my Morning’s Present.

Old W.  What, do you fear a longing Woman, Sir?

Gay.  The Devil I do—­this is a damn’d Preparation to Love.

Old W.  Why stand you gazing, Sir?  A Woman’s Passion is like the Tide, it stays for no man when the hour is come—­