Sir _Feeb_. No, that wou’d not do, the Baggage was damnably in love with a young Fellow they call _Bellmour_, a handsome young Rascal he was, they say, that’s truth on’t; and a pretty Estate: but happening to kill a Man he was forced to fly. _Bel_. That was great pity, Sir. Sir _Feeb_. Pity! hang him, Rogue, ‘sbobs, and all the young Fellows in the Town deserve it; we can never keep our Wives and Daughters honest for rampant young Dogs; and an old Fellow cannot put in amongst ‘em, under being undone, with Presenting, and the Devil and all. But what dost think I did? being damnably in love--I feign’d a Letter as from the _Hague_, wherein was a Relation of this same _Bellmour’s_ being hang’d. _Bel_. Is’t possible, Sir, you cou’d devise such News? Sir _Feeb_. Possible, Man! I did it, I did it; she swooned at the News, shut her self up a whole Month in her Chamber; but I presented high: she sigh’d and wept, and swore she’d never marry: still I presented; she hated, loathed, spit upon me; still, adod, I presented, till I presented my self effectually in Church to her; for she at last wisely considered her Vows were cancell’d, since _Bellmour_ was hang’d. _Bel_. Faith, Sir, this was very cruel, to take away his Fame, and then his Mistress. Sir _Feeb_. Cruel! thou’rt an Ass, we are but even with the brisk Rogues, for they take away our Fame, cuckold us, and take away our Wives: so, so, my Cap, _Francis_. _Bel_. And do you think this Marriage lawful, Sir? Sir _Feeb_. Lawful! it shall be when I’ve had Livery and Seisin of her Body--and that shall be presently Rogue,--quick--besides, this _Bellmour_ dares as well be hang’d as come into _England_. _Bel_. If he gets his Pardon, Sir-- Sir _Feeb_. Pardon! no, no, I have took care for that, for I have, you must know, got his Pardon already. _Bel_. How, Sir! got his Pardon, that’s some amends for robbing him of his Wife. Sir _Feeb_. Hold, honest _Francis_: What, dost think ‘twas in kindness to him! No, you Fool, I got his Pardon my self, that no body else should have it, so that if he gets any body to speak to his Majesty for it, his Majesty cries he has granted it; but for want of my appearance, he’s defunct, trust up, hang’d, _Francis_. _Bel_. This is the most excellent revenge I ever heard of. Sir _Feeb_. Ay, I learnt it of a great Politician of our Times. _Bel_. But have you got his Pardon?-- Sir _Feeb_. I’ve done’t, I’ve done’t; Pox on him, it cost me five hundred pounds though: Here ‘tis, my Solicitor brought it me this Evening. [_Gives it him_. _Bel_. This was a lucky hit--and if it scape me, let me be hang’d by a Trick indeed. [_Aside_. Sir _Feeb_. So, put it into my Cabinet,--safe, _Francis_, safe. _Bel_. Safe, I’ll warrant you, Sir. Sir _Feeb_. My Gown, quick, quick,--t’other Sleeve, Man--so now my Night-cap; well, I’ll in, throw open my Gown to fright away the Women, and jump into her Arms. [_Exit Sir_ Feeble.