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.