Enter Leticia, Bellmour, and Phillis.

Sir Feeb.  Hah, Ghost—­another Sight would make me mad indeed.

Bel.  Behold me, Sir, I have no Terror now.

Sir Feeb.  Hah—­who’s that, Francis!—­my Nephew Francis?

Bel. Bellmour, or Francis, chuse you which you like, and I am either.

Sir Feeb.  Hah, Bellmour! and no Ghost?

Bel.  Bellmour—­and not your Nephew, Sir.

Sir Feeb.  But art alive?  Ods bobs, I’m glad on’t, Sirrah;—­But are you real, Bellmour?

Bel.  As sure as I’m no Ghost.

Gay.  We all can witness for him, Sir.

Sir Feeb.  Where be the Minstrels, we’ll have a Dance—­adod, we will —­Ah—­art thou there, thou cozening little Chits-face?—­a Vengeance on thee—­thou madest mean old doting loving Coxcomb—­but I forgive thee—­and give thee all thy Jewels, and you your Pardon, Sir, so you’ll give me mine; for I find you young Knaves will be too hard for us.

Bel.  You are so generous, Sir, that ’tis almost with grief I receive the Blessing of Leticia.

Sir Feeb.  No, no, thou deservest her; she would have made an old fond Blockhead of me, and one way or other you wou’d have had her—­ods bobs, you wou’d—­

    Enter Bearjest, Diana, Pert, Bredwel, and Noisey.

Bea.  Justice, Sir, Justice—­I have been cheated—­abused—­assassinated and ravisht!

Sir Cau.  How, my Nephew ravisht!—­

Pert.  No, Sir, I am his Wife.

Sir Cau.  Hum—­my Heir marry a Chamber-maid!

Bea.  Sir, you must know I stole away Mrs. Dy, and brought her to Ned’s Chamber here—­to marry her.

Sir Feeb.  My Daughter Dy stoln—­

Bea.  But I being to go to the Devil a little, Sir, whip—­what does he, but marries her himself, Sir; and fob’d me off here with my Lady’s cast Petticoat—­

Noi.  Sir, she’s a Gentlewoman, and my Sister, Sir.

Pert.  Madam, ’twas a pious Fraud, if it were one; for I was contracted to him before—­see, here it is—­ [Gives it ’em.

All.  A plain Case, a plain Case.

Sir Feeb.  Harkye, Sir, have you had the Impudence to marry my
Daughter, Sir?
                  [To Bredwel, who with Diana kneels.

Bred.  Yes, Sir, and humbly ask your Pardon, and your Blessing—­

Sir Feeb.  You will ha’t, whether I will or not—­rise, you are still too hard for us:  Come, Sir, forgive your Nephew—­

Sir Cau.  Well, Sir, I will—­but all this while you little think the Tribulation I am in, my Lady has forsworn my Bed.

Sir Feeb.  Indeed, Sir, the wiser she.