_Bel_. He’s gone, quickly, oh Love inspire me! _Enter a Footman_. _Foot_. Sir, my Master, Sir _Cautious Fulbank_, left his Watch on the little Parlor-Table to night, and bid me call for’t. _Bel_. Hah--the Bridegroom has it, Sir, who is just gone to Bed, it shall be sent him in the Morning. _Foot_. ‘Tis very well, Sir--your Servant-- [_Exit_ Footman. _Bel_. Let me see--here is the Watch, I took it up to keep for him--but his sending has inspir’d me with a sudden Stratagem, that will do better than Force, to secure the poor trembling _Leticia_--who, I am sure, is dying with her Fears. [_Exit_ Bellmour. SCENE II. _Changes to the Bed-chamber; _Leticia_ in an undressing by the Women at the Table_. _Enter to them Sir_ Feeble Fainwou’d. Sir _Feeb_. What’s here? what’s here? the prating Women still. Ods bobs, what, not in Bed yet? for shame of Love, _Leticia_. _Let_. For shame of Modesty, Sir; you wou’d not have me go to Bed before all this Company. Sir _Feeb_. What, the Women! why, they must see you laid, ‘tis the fashion. _Let_. What, with a Man? I wou’d not for the World. Oh, _Bellmour_, where art thou with all thy promised aid? [_Aside_. _Dia_. Nay, Madam, we shou’d see you laid indeed. _Let_. First in my Grave, _Diana_. Sir _Feeb_. Ods bobs, here’s a Compact amongst the Women--High Treason against the Bridegroom--therefore, Ladies, withdraw, or, adod, I’ll lock you all in. [_Throws open his Gown, they run all away, he locks the Door_. So, so, now we’re alone, _Leticia_--off with this foolish Modesty, and Night Gown, and slide into my Arms. [_She runs from him_. H’e’, my little Puskin--what, fly me, my coy _Daphne_, [_He pursues her. Knocking_. Hah--who’s that knocks--who’s there?-- _Bel_. [_Within_.] ‘Tis I, Sir, ‘tis I, open the door presently. Sir _Feeb_. Why, what’s the matter, is the House o-fire? _Bel_. [_Within_.] Worse, Sir, worse-- [_He opens the door, _Bellmour_ enters with the Watch in his hand_. _Let_. ‘Tis _Bellmour’s_ Voice! _Bel_. Oh, Sir, do you know this Watch? Sir _Feeb_. This Watch! _Bel_. Ay, Sir, this Watch? Sir _Feeb_. This Watch!--why, prithee, why dost tell me of a Watch? ‘tis Sir _Cautious Fulbank’s_ Watch; what then, what a Pox dost trouble me with Watches? [_Offers to put him out, he returns_. _Bel_. ‘Tis indeed his Watch, Sir, and by this Token he has sent for you, to come immediately to his House, Sir. Sir _Feeb_. What a Devil, art mad, _Francis_? or is his Worship mad, or does he think me mad?--go, prithee tell him I’ll come to him to morrow. [_Goes to put him out_. _Bel_. To morrow, Sir! why all our Throats may be cut before to morrow. Sir _Feeb_. What sayst thou, Throat cut?