Sir _Feeb_. Haste away! there ‘tis again--No--’tis not me she means: what, at your Tricks and Intrigues already?--Yes, yes, I am destin’d a Cuckold-- _Let_. Say, am I not your Wife? can you deny me? Sir _Feeb_. Wife! adod, ‘tis I she means--’tis I she means--[_Merrily_. _Let_. Oh _Bellmour, Bellmour_. [_Sir _Feeb_. starts back from her hands_. Sir _Feeb_. Hum--what’s that--_Bellmour_! _Let_. Hah! Sir _Feeble_!--he would not, Sir, have us’d me thus unkindly. Sir _Feeb_. Oh--I’m glad ‘tis no worse--_Bellmour_, quoth a! I thought the Ghost was come again. _Phil_. Why did you not speak, Sir, all this while?--my Lady weeps with your Unkindness. Sir _Feeb_. I did but hold my peace, to hear how prettily she prattled Love: But, fags, you are naught to think of a young Fellow--ads bobs, you are now. _Let_. I only say--he wou’d not have been so unkind to me. Sir _Feeb_. But what makes ye out at this Hour, and with these Jewels? _Phil_. Alas, Sir, we thought the City was in Arms, and packt up our things to secure ‘em, if there had been a necessity for Flight. For had they come to plundering once, they wou’d have begun with the rich Aldermen’s Wives, you know, Sir. Sir _Feeb_. Ads bobs, and so they would--but there was no Arms, nor Mutiny--where’s _Francis_? _Bel_. Here, Sir. Sir _Feeb_. Here, Sir--why, what a story you made of a Meeting in the Hall, and--Arms, and--a--the Devil of any thing was stirring, but a couple of old Fools, that sat gaping and waiting for one another’s business-- _Bel_. Such a Message was brought me, Sir. Sir _Feeb_. Brought! thou’rt an Ass, _Francis_--but no more--come, come, let’s to bed-- _Let_. To Bed, Sir! what, by Day-light?--for that’s hasting on--I wou’d not for the World--the Night wou’d hide my Blushes--but the Day--wou’d let me see my self in your Embraces. Sir _Feeb_. Embraces, in a Fiddlestick; why, are we not married? _Let_. ‘Tis true, Sir, and Time will make me more familiar with you, but yet my Virgin Modesty forbids it. I’ll to _Diana’s_ Chamber, the Night will come again. Sir _Feeb_. For once you shall prevail; and this damn’d Jant has pretty well mortified me:--a Pox of your Mutiny, _Francis_.--Come, I’ll conduct thee to _Diana_, and lock thee in, that I may have thee safe, Rogue.-- _We’ll give young Wenches leave to whine and blush, And fly those Blessings which--ads bobs, they wish_. [_Exeunt_. ACT IV. SCENE I. _Sir _Feeble’s_ House_. _Enter Lady_ Fulbank, Gayman _fine, gently pulling her back by the hand; and_ Ralph _meets ‘em_. L. _Ful_. How now, _Ralph_--Let your Lady know I am come to wait on her. [_Exit _Ralph. _Gay_. Oh, why this needless Visit-- Your Husband’s safe, at least till Evening safe. Why will you not go back, And give me one soft hour, though to torment me?