[_Goes to put him out_.

_Bel_. To morrow, Sir! why all our Throats may be cut before to morrow.

Sir _Feeb_. What sayst thou, Throat cut?

_Bel_. Why, the City's up in Arms, Sir, and all the Aldermen are met at
_Guild-Hall_; some damnable Plot, Sir.

Sir _Feeb_. Hah--Plot--the Aldermen met at _Guild-Hall!_--hum--why, let
'em meet, I'll not lose this Night to save the Nation.

_Let_. Wou'd you to bed, Sir, when the weighty Affairs of State require
your Presence?

Sir _Feeb_.--Hum--met at _Guild-Hall_;--my Clothes, my Gown again,
_Francis_, I'll out--out! what, upon my Wedding-night? No--I'll in.
[_Putting on his Gown pausing, pulls it off again_.

_Let_. For shame, Sir, shall the Reverend Council of the City debate
without you?

Sir _Feeb_. Ay, that's true, that's true; come truss again, _Francis_,
truss again--yet now I think on't, _Francis_, prithee run thee to the
Hall, and tell 'em 'tis my Wedding-night, d'ye see, _Francis_; and let
some body give my Voice for--

_Bel_. What, Sir?

Sir _Feeb_. Adod, I cannot tell; up in Arms, say you! why, let 'em fight
Dog, fight Bear; mun, I'll to Bed--go--

_Let_. And shall his Majesty's Service and his Safety lie unregarded for
a slight Woman, Sir?

Sir _Feeb_. Hum, his Majesty!--come, haste, _Francis_, I'll away, and
call _Ralph_, and the Footmen, and bid 'em arm; each Man shoulder his
Musket, and advance his Pike--and bring my Artillery Implements
quick--and let's away: Pupsey--b'u'y, Pupsey, I'll bring it a fine thing
yet before Morning, it may be--let's away: I shall grow fond, and forget
the business of the Nation--Come, follow me, _Francis_.--

[_Exit Sir_ Feeble, Bellmour _runs to_ Leticia.

_Bel_. Now, my _Leticia_, if thou e'er didst Love, If ever thou
design'st to make me blest--Without delay fly this adulterous Bed.

Sir _Feeb_. Why, _Francis_, where are you, Knave?
[_Sir _Feeb_. within_.

_Bel_. I must be gone, lest he suspect us--I'll lose him, and return to
thee immediately--get thy self ready.--

_Let_. I will not fail, my Love.

[_Exit_ Bellmour.

_Old Man forgive me--thou the Aggressor art,
Who rudely forc'd the Hand without the Heart.
She cannot from the Paths of Honour rove,
Whose Guide's Religion, and whose End is Love_.

[_Exit_.

SCENE III. _Changes to a Wash-ho