our 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.