FOND. Here are fifty pieces in this purse, Sir Joseph; if you will tarry a moment, till I fetch my papers, I’ll wait upon you down-stairs. LÆT. Ruined, past redemption! what shall I do—ha! this fool may be of use. (Aside.) [_As_ FONDLEWIFE _is going into the chamber_, _she runs to_ SIR JOSEPH, _almost pushes him down_, _and cries out_.] Stand off, rude ruffian. Help me, my dear. O bless me! Why will you leave me alone with such a Satyr? FOND. Bless us! What’s the matter? What’s the matter? LÆT. Your back was no sooner turned, but like a lion he came open mouthed upon me, and would have ravished a kiss from me by main force. SIR JO. O Lord! Oh, terrible! Ha, ha, ha. Is your wife mad, Alderman? LÆT. Oh! I’m sick with the fright; won’t you take him out of my sight? FOND. O traitor! I’m astonished. O bloody-minded traitor! SIR JO. Hey-day! Traitor yourself. By the Lord Harry, I was in most danger of being ravished, if you go to that. FOND. Oh, how the blasphemous wretch swears! Out of my house, thou son of the whore of Babylon; offspring of Bel and the Dragon.—Bless us! ravish my wife! my Dinah! Oh, Shechemite! Begone, I say. SIR JO. Why, the devil’s in the people, I think. SCENE XIX. LÆTITIA, FONDLEWIFE. LÆT. Oh! won’t you follow, and see him out of doors, my dear? FOND. I’ll shut this door to secure him from coming back—Give me the key of your cabinet, Cocky. Ravish my wife before my face? I warrant he’s a Papist in his heart at least, if not a Frenchman. LÆT. What can I do now! (Aside.) Oh! my dear, I have been in such a fright, that I forgot to tell you, poor Mr. Spintext has a sad fit of the colic, and is forced to lie down upon our bed—you’ll disturb him; I can tread softlier. FOND. Alack, poor man—no, no—you don’t know the papers—I won’t disturb him; give me the key. [_She gives him the key_, _goes to the chamber door and speaks aloud_.] LÆT. ’Tis nobody but Mr. Fondlewife, Mr. Spintext, lie still on your stomach; lying on your stomach will ease you of the colic. FOND. Ay, ay, lie still, lie still; don’t let me disturb you. SCENE XX. LÆTITIA _alone_. LÆT. Sure, when he does not see his face, he won’t discover him. Dear fortune, help me but this once, and I’ll never run in thy debt again. But this opportunity is the Devil. SCENE XXI. FONDLEWIFE _returns with Papers_. FOND. Good lack! good lack! I profess the poor man is in great torment; he lies as flat—Dear, you should heat a trencher, or a napkin.—Where’s Deborah? Let her clap some warm thing to his stomach, or chafe it with a warm hand rather than fail. What book’s this? [_Sees the book that_ BELLMOUR _forgot_.] LÆT. Mr. Spintext’s prayer-book, dear. Pray Heaven it be a prayer-book. [_Aside_.]