L. _Ful_. Oh, ‘tis too late for business--let to morrow serve. _Gay_. By no means--the Gentleman is to go out of Town. L. _Ful_. Rise the earlier then-- _Gay_.--But, Madam, the Gentleman lies dangerously--sick--and should he die-- L. _Ful_. ‘Tis not a dying Uncle, I hope, Sir? _Gay_. Hum-- L. _Ful_. The Gentleman a dying, and to go out of Town to morrow? _Gay_. Ay--a--he goes--in a Litter--’tis his Fancy, Madam--Change of Air may recover him. L. _Ful_. So may your change of Mistress do me, Sir--farewel. [_Goes out_. _Gay_. Stay, _Julia_--Devil, be damn’d--for you shall tempt no more, I’ll love and be undone--but she is gone-- And if I stay, the most that I shall gain Is but a reconciling Look, or Kiss. No, my kind Goblin-- _I’ll keep my Word with thee, as the least Evil; A tantalizing Woman’s worse than Devil_. [_Exit_. ACT III. SCENE I. _Sir_ Feeble’s _House_. _The Second Song before the Entry_. A SONG made by Mr. _Cheek_. _No more, Lucinda, ah! expose no more To the admiring World those conquering Charms: In vain all day unhappy Men adore, What the kind Night gives to my longing Arms. Their vain Attempts can ne’er successful prove, Whilst I so well maintain the Fort of Love. Yet to the World with so bewitching Arts, Your dazling Beauty you around display, And triumph in the Spoils of broken Hearts, That sink beneath your feet, and croud your Way. Ah! suffer now your Cruelty to cease, And to a fruitless War prefer a Peace_. _Enter_ Ralph _with Light, Sir_ Feeble, _and_ Bellmour Sir _Feeb_. So, so, they’re gone--Come, _Francis_, you shall have the Honour of undressing me for the Encounter; but ‘twill be a sweet one, _Francis_. _Bel_. Hell take him, how he teazes me! [_Undressing all the while_. Sir _Feeb_. But is the young Rogue laid, _Francis_--is she stoln to Bed? What Tricks the young Baggages have to whet a man’s Appetite? _Bel_. Ay, Sir--Pox on him--he will raise my Anger up to Madness, and I shall kill him to prevent his going to Bed to her. [_Aside_. Sir _Feeb_. A pise of those Bandstrings--the more haste the less speed. _Bel_. Be it so in all things, I beseech thee, _Venus_. Sir _Feeb_. Thy aid a little, _Francis_--oh, oh--thou choakest me, ’.bobs, what dost mean? [_Pinches him by the Throat_. _Bel_. You had so hamper’d ‘em, Sir--the Devil’s very mischievous in me. [_Aside_. Sir _Feeb_. Come, come, quick, good _Francis_, adod, I’m as yare as a Hawk at the young Wanton--nimbly, good _Francis_, untruss, untruss. _Bel_. Cramps seize ye--what shall I do? the near Approach distracts me. [_Aside_. Sir _Feeb_. So, so, my Breeches, good _Francis_. But well, _Francis_, how dost think I got the young Jade my Wife? _Bel_. With five hundred pounds a year Jointure, Sir.