Hell. I’ll warrant, if my Brother hears either of you sigh, he cries (gravely)—I fear you have the Indiscretion to be in love, but take heed of the Honour of our House, and your own unspotted Fame; and so he conjures on till he has laid the soft-wing’d God in your Hearts, or broke the Birds-nest—But see here comes your Lover: but where’s my inconstant? let’s step aside, and we may learn something. [Go aside.
Enter Belvile, Fred. and Blunt.
Belv. What means this? the Picture’s taken in.
Blunt. It may be the Wench is good natur’d, and will be kind gratis. Your Friend’s a proper handsom Fellow.
Belv. I rather think she has cut his Throat and is fled: I am mad he should throw himself into Dangers—Pox on’t, I shall want him to night—let’s knock and ask for him.
Hell. My heart goes a-pit a-pat, for fear ’tis my Man they talk of. [Knock, Moretta above.
More. What would you have?
Belv. Tell the Stranger that enter’d here about two Hours [ago], that his Friends stay here for him.
Moret. A Curse upon him for Moretta, would he were at the Devil—but he’s coming to you. [Enter Wilmore.
Hell. I, I, ’tis he. Oh how this vexes me.