_Gay_. 'Tis not in my Bargain to sollicit her, Sir, you are to procure her--or three hundred pounds, Sir; chuse you whether.
Sir _Cau_. Procure her! with all my soul, Sir; alas, you mistake my honest meaning, I scorn to be so unjust as not to see you a-bed together; and then agree as well as you can, I have done my part--In order to this, Sir--get but your self conveyed in a Chest to my house, with a Direction upon't for me; and for the rest--
_Gay_. I understand you.
Sir _Feeb_. _Ralph_, get supper ready.
_Enter_ Bea. _with Dancers; all go out but Sir_ Cautious.
Sir _Cau_. Well, I must break my Mind, if possible, to my Lady--but if she shou'd be refractory now--and make me pay Three hundred Pounds--why, sure she won't have so little Grace--Three hundred Pounds sav'd, is three hundred pounds got--by our account--Cou'd All--
_Who of this City-Privilege are free, Hope to be paid for Cuckoldom like me; Th'unthriving Merchant, whom gray Hair adorns, Before all Ventures wou'd ensure his Horns; For thus, while he but lets spare Rooms to hire, His Wife's cracked Credit keeps his own entire_.
[_Exit_.
ACT V.
SCENE I. _Sir_ Cautious _his House_.
_Enter_ Bellmour _alone, sad_.
_Bel_. The Night is come, oh my _Leticia_!
The longing Bridegroom hastens to his Bed; Whilst she with all the languishment of Love, And sad Despair, casts her fair Eyes on me, Which silently implore, I would deliver her.
But how! ay, there's the Question--hah-- [_Pausing_.
I'll get my self hid in her Bed-chamber-- And something I will do--may serve us yet-- If all my Arts should fail--I'll have recourse [_Draws a dagger_.
To this--and bear _Leticia_ off by force.
--But see she comes--
_Enter Lady_ Fulbank, _Sir_ Cautious, _Sir_ Feeble, Leticia, Bearjest, Noisey, Gayman. _Exit_ Bellmour.
Sir _Feeb_. Lights there, _Ralph_.
And my Lady's Coach there--
[Bearjest _goes to_ Gayman.
_Bea_. Well, Sir, remember you have promised to grant me my diabolical Request, in shewing me the Devil--
_Gay_. I will not fail you, Sir.
L. _Ful_. Madam, your Servant; I hope you'll see no more Ghosts, Sir _Feeble_.
Sir _Feeb_. No more of that, I beseech you, Madam: Prithee, Sir _Cautious_, take away your Wife--Madam, your Servant-- [_All go out after the Light_.
--Come, _Lette, Lette_; hasten, Rogue, hasten to thy Chamber; away, here be the young Wenches coming-- [_Puts her out, he goes out_.
_Enter_ Diana, _puts on her Hood and Scarf_.
_Dia_. So--they are gone to Bed; and now for _Bredwel_ --the Coach waits, and I'll take this opportunity.
_Father, farewell--if you dislike my course, Blame the old rigid Customs of your Force_.
[_Goes out_.
SCENE II. _A Bed-chamber_.
_Enter Sir_ Feeble, Leticia, _and_ Phillis.
_Let_. Ah, _Phillis_! I am fainting with my Fears, Hast thou no comfort for me?
[_He undresses to his Gown_.
Sir _Feeb_. Why, what art doing there--fiddle fadling--adod, you young Wenches are so loth to come to--but when your hand's in, you have no mercy upon us poor Husbands.
_Let_. Why do you talk so, Sir?
Sir _Feeb_. Was it anger'd at the Fool's Prattle? tum a-me, tum a-me, I'll undress it, effags, I will--Roguy.
_Let_. You are so wanton, Sir, you make me blush--I will not go to bed, unless you'll promise me--
Sir _Feeb_. No bargaining, my little Hussey--what, you'll tie my hands behind me, will you?
[_She goes to the Table_.
_Let_.--What shall I do?--assist me, gentle Maid, Thy Eyes methinks put on a little hope.
_Phil_. Take Courage, Madam--you guess right--be confident.
Sir _Feeb_. No whispering, Gentlewoman--and putting Tricks into her head; that shall not cheat me of another Night--Look on that silly little round Chitty-face--look on those smiling roguish loving Eyes there--look--look how they laugh, twire, and tempt--he, Rogue--I'll buss 'em there, and here, and every where--ods bods--away, this is fooling and spoiling of a Man's Stomach, with a bit here, and a bit there--to Bed--to Bed--
[_As she is at the Toilet, he looks over her shoulder, and sees her Face in the Glass_.
_Let_. Go you first, Sir, I will but stay to say my Prayers, which are that Heaven wou'd deliver me. [_Aside_.
Sir _Feeb_. Say thy Prayers!--What, art thou mad! Prayers upon thy Wedding-night! a short Thanksgiving or so--but Prayers quoth a--'Sbobs, you'll have time enough for that, I doubt--
_Le_. I am asham'd to undress before you, Sir; go to Bed--
Sir _Feeb_. What, was it asham'd to shew its little white Foots, and its little round Bubbies--well, I'll go, I'll go--I cannot think on't, no I cannot--
[_Going towards the Bed_, Bellmour _comes forth from between the Curtains, his Coat off, his Shirt bloody, a Dagger in his hand, and his Disguise off_.
_Bel_. Stand--