[_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,