that I forgot to tell you, poor Mr. Spintext has a sad fit of the
colic, and is forced to lie down upon our bed--you'll disturb him; I can
tread softlier.

FOND. Alack, poor man--no, no--you don't know the papers--I won't
disturb him; give me the key. [_She gives him the key_, _goes to the
chamber door and speaks aloud_.]

LAET. 'Tis nobody but Mr. Fondlewife, Mr. Spintext, lie still on your
stomach; lying on your stomach will ease you of the colic.

FOND. Ay, ay, lie still, lie still; don't let me disturb you.

SCENE XX.

LAETITIA _alone_.

LAET. Sure, when he does not see his face, he won't discover him. Dear
fortune, help me but this once, and I'll never run in thy debt again. But
this opportunity is the Devil.

SCENE XXI.

FONDLEWIFE _returns with Papers_.

FOND. Good lack! good lack! I profess the poor man is in great torment;
he lies as flat--Dear, you should heat a trencher, or a napkin.--Where's
Deborah? Let her clap some warm thing to his stomach, or chafe it with a
warm hand rather than fail. What book's this? [_Sees the book that_
BELLMOUR _forgot_.]

LAET. Mr. Spintext's prayer-book, dear. Pray Heaven it be a
prayer-book. [_Aside_.]

FOND. Good man! I warrant he dropped it on purpose that you might take
it up and read some of the pious ejaculations. [_Taking up the book_.] O
bless me! O monstrous! A prayer-book? Ay, this is the devil's
paternoster. Hold, let me see: The Innocent Adultery.

LAET. Misfortune! now all's ruined again. [_Aside_.]

BELL. [_Peeping_]. Damned chance! If I had gone a-whoring with the
Practice of Piety in my pocket I had never been discovered.

FOND. Adultery, and innocent! O Lord! Here's doctrine! Ay, here's
discipline!

LAET. Dear husband, I'm amazed. Sure it is a good book, and only tends
to the speculation of sin.

FOND. Speculation! No no; something went farther than speculation when
I was not to be let in.--Where is this apocryphal elder? I'll ferret
him.

LAET. I'm so distracted, I can't think of a lie. [_Aside_.]

SCENE XXII.

LAETITIA _and_ FONDLEWIFE _haling out_ BELLMOUR.

FOND. Come out here, thou Ananias incarnate. Who, how now! Who have we
here?

LAET. Ha! [_Shrieks as surprised_.]

FOND. Oh thou salacious woman! Am I then brutified? Ay, I feel it
here; I sprout, I bud, I blossom, I am ripe-horn-mad. But who in the
devil's name are you? Mercy on me for swearing. But--

LAET. O