Fort of Love.

Yet to the World with so bewitching Arts,
Your dazling Beauty you around display,
And triumph in the Spoils of broken Hearts,
That sink beneath your feet, and croud your Way.
Ah! suffer now your Cruelty to cease,
And to a fruitless War prefer a Peace_.

_Enter_ Ralph _with Light, Sir_ Feeble, _and_ Bellmour

Sir _Feeb_. So, so, they're gone--Come, _Francis_, you shall have the
Honour of undressing me for the Encounter; but 'twill be a sweet one,
_Francis_.

_Bel_. Hell take him, how he teazes me! [_Undressing all the while_.

Sir _Feeb_. But is the young Rogue laid, _Francis_--is she stoln to Bed?
What Tricks the young Baggages have to whet a man's Appetite?

_Bel_. Ay, Sir--Pox on him--he will raise my Anger up to Madness, and I
shall kill him to prevent his going to Bed to her. [_Aside_.

Sir _Feeb_. A pise of those Bandstrings--the more haste the less speed.

_Bel_. Be it so in all things, I beseech thee, _Venus_.

Sir _Feeb_. Thy aid a little, _Francis_--oh, oh--thou choakest me,
'sbobs, what dost mean? [_Pinches him by the Throat_.

_Bel_. You had so hamper'd 'em, Sir--the Devil's very mischievous
in me. [_Aside_.

Sir _Feeb_. Come, come, quick, good _Francis_, adod, I'm as yare as a
Hawk at the young Wanton--nimbly, good _Francis_, untruss, untruss.

_Bel_. Cramps seize ye--what shall I do? the near Approach distracts
me. [_Aside_.

Sir _Feeb_. So, so, my Breeches, good _Francis_. But well, _Francis_,
how dost think I got the young Jade my Wife?

_Bel_. With five hundred pounds a year Jointure, Sir.

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