BELL. [_Peeping_]. Damned chance! If I had gone a-whoring with the Practice of Piety in my pocket I had never been discovered. FOND. Adultery, and innocent! O Lord! Here's doctrine! Ay, here's discipline! LAET. Dear husband, I'm amazed. Sure it is a good book, and only tends to the speculation of sin. FOND. Speculation! No no; something went farther than speculation when I was not to be let in.--Where is this apocryphal elder? I'll ferret him. LAET. I'm so distracted, I can't think of a lie. [_Aside_.] SCENE XXII. LAETITIA _and_ FONDLEWIFE _haling out_ BELLMOUR. FOND. Come out here, thou Ananias incarnate. Who, how now! Who have we here? LAET. Ha! [_Shrieks as surprised_.] FOND. Oh thou salacious woman! Am I then brutified? Ay, I feel it here; I sprout, I bud, I blossom, I am ripe-horn-mad. But who in the devil's name are you? Mercy on me for swearing. But-- LAET. Oh! goodness keep us! Who are you? What are you? BELL. Soh! LAET. In the name of the--O! Good, my dear, don't come near it; I'm afraid 'tis the devil; indeed, it has hoofs, dear. FOND. Indeed, and I have horns, dear. The devil, no, I am afraid 'tis the flesh, thou harlot. Dear, with the pox. Come Syren, speak, confess, who is this reverend, brawny pastor. LAET. Indeed, and indeed now, my dear Nykin, I never saw this wicked man before. FOND. Oh, it is a man then, it seems. LAET. Rather, sure it is a wolf in the clothing of a sheep. FOND. Thou art a devil in his proper clothing--woman's flesh. What, you know nothing of him, but his fleece here! You don't love mutton? you Magdalen unconverted. BELL. Well, now, I know my cue.--That is, very honourably to excuse her, and very impudently accuse myself. [_Aside_.] LAET. Why then, I wish I may never enter into the heaven of your embraces again, my dear, if ever I saw his face before. FOND. O Lord! O strange! I am in admiration of your impudence. Look at him a little better; he is more modest, I warrant you, than to deny it. Come, were you two never face to face before? Speak. BELL. Since all artifice is vain. And I think myself obliged to speak the truth in justice to your wife.--No. FOND. Humph. LAET. No, indeed, dear. FOND. Nay, I find you are both in a story; that I must confess. But, what--not to be cured of the colic? Don't you know your patient, Mrs. Quack? Oh, 'lie upon your stomach; lying upon your stomach will cure you of the colic.' Ah! answer me, Jezebel? LAET. Let the wicked man answer for himself: does he think I have nothing to do but excuse him? 'tis enough if I can clear my own innocence to my own dear. BELL. By my troth, and so 'tis. I have been a little too backward; that's the truth on't. FOND. Come, sir, who are you, in the first place? And what are you? BELL. A whore-master. FOND. Very concise. LAET. O beastly, impudent creature. FOND. Well, sir, and what came you hither for? BELL. To lie with your wife.