Sir Feeb. Why, what art doing there—fiddle fadling—adod, you young Wenches are so loth to come to—but when your hand’s in, you have no mercy upon us poor Husbands.

Let. Why do you talk so, Sir?

Sir Feeb. Was it anger’d at the Fool’s Prattle? tum a-me, tum a-me, I’ll undress it, effags, I will—Roguy.

Let. You are so wanton, Sir, you make me blush—I will not go to bed, unless you’ll promise me—

Sir Feeb. No bargaining, my little Hussey—what, you’ll tie my hands behind me, will you? [She goes to the Table.

Let.—What shall I do?—assist me, gentle Maid, Thy Eyes methinks put on a little hope.

Phil. Take Courage, Madam—you guess right—be confident.

Sir Feeb. No whispering, Gentlewoman—and putting Tricks into her head; that shall not cheat me of another Night—Look on that silly little round Chitty-face—look on those smiling roguish loving Eyes there—look—look how they laugh, twire, and tempt—he, Rogue—I’ll buss ‘em there, and here, and every where—ods bods—away, this is fooling and spoiling of a Man’s Stomach, with a bit here, and a bit there—to Bed—to Bed—

[As she is at the Toilet, he looks over her shoulder, and sees her Face in the Glass.

Let. Go you first, Sir, I will but stay to say my Prayers, which are that Heaven wou’d deliver me. [Aside.

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.

Sir Feeb. Oh—wou’d he were gone!—

Bel. Fly—be gone—depart, vanish for ever from her to some more safe and innocent Apartment.

Sir Feeb. Oh, that’s very hard!—

[He goes back trembling, Bellmour follows in with his Dagger up; both go out.

Let. Blest be this kind Release, and yet methinks it grieves me to consider how the poor old Man is frighted.

[Bellmour re-enters, puts on his Coat.

Bel.—He’s gone, and lock’d himself into his Chamber— And now, my dear Leticia, let us fly—

Despair till now did my wild Heart invade, But pitying Love has the rough Storm allay’d.

[Exeunt.