_Bel_. snatches her to his Bosom, as if she fainted. _Bel_. Oh Heavens, she’s gone, she’s gone! Sir _Feeb_. Gone--whither is she gone?--it seems she had the Wit to take good Company with her-- [_The Women go to her, take her up_. _Bel_. She’s gone to Heaven, Sir, for ought I know. Sir _Cau_. She was resolv’d to go in a young Fellow’s Arms, I see. Sir _Feeb_. Go to, _Francis_--go to. L. _Ful_. Stand back, Sir, she recovers. _Bel_. Alas, I found her dead upon the Floor, --Shou’d I have left her so--if I had known your mind-- Sir _Feeb_. Was it so--was it so?--Got so, by no means, _Francis_.-- _Let_. Pardon him, Sir, for surely I had died, Bur for his timely coming. Sir _Feeb_. Alas, poor Pupsey--was it sick--look here--here’s a fine thing to make it well again. Come, buss, and it shall have it--oh, how I long for Night. _Ralph_, are the Fidlers ready? _Ral_. They are tuning in the Hall, Sir. Sir _Feeb_. That’s well, they know my mind. I hate that same twang, twang, twang, fum, fum, fum, tweedle, tweedle, tweedle, then scrue go the Pins, till a man’s Teeth are on an edge; then snap, says a small Gut, and there we are at a loss again. I long to be in bed with a--hey tredodle, tredodle, tredodle,--with a hay tredool, tredodle, tredo-- [_Dancing and playing on his Stick like a Flute_. Sir _Cau_. A prudent Man would reserve himself--Good-facks, I danc’d so on my Wedding-day, that when I came to Bed, to my Shame be it spoken, I fell fast asleep, and slept till morning. L. _Ful_. Where was your Wisdom then, Sir _Cautious_? But I know what a wise Woman ought to have done. Sir _Feeb_. Odsbobs, that’s Wormwood, that’s Wormwood--I shall have my young Hussey set a-gog too; she’ll hear there are better things in the World than she has at home, and then odsbobs, and then they’ll ha’t, adod, they will, Sir _Cautious_. Ever while you live, keep a Wife ignorant, unless a Man be as brisk as his Neighbours. Sir _Cau_. A wise Man will keep ‘em from baudy Christnings then, and Gossipings. Sir _Feeb_. Christnings and Gossipings! why, they are the very Schools that debauch our Wives, as Dancing-Schools do our Daughters. Sir _Cau_. Ay, when the overjoy’d good Man invites ‘em all against that time Twelve-month: Oh, he’s a dear Man, cries one--I must marry, cries another, here’s a Man indeed--my Husband--God help him-- Sir _Feeb_. Then he falls to telling of her Grievance, till (half maudlin) she weeps again: Just my Condition, cries a third: so the Frolick goes round, and we poor Cuckolds are anatomiz’d, and turn’d the right side outwards; adsbobs, we are, Sir _Cautious_. Sir _Cau_. Ay, ay, this Grievance ought to be redrest, Sir _Feeble_; the grave and sober part o’th’ Nation are hereby ridicul’d,--Ay, and cuckolded too for ought I know.