Blunt. And thou shall see what haste I’ll make to quit scores—oh the luckiest Rogue! [Undresses himself.
Luc. Shou’d you be false or cruel now!
Blunt. False, ’Sheartlikins, what dost thou take me for a Jew? an insensible Heathen,—A Pox of thy old jealous Husband: and he were dead, egad, sweet Soul, it shou’d be none of my fault, if I did not marry thee.
Luc. It never shou’d be mine.
Blunt. Good Soul, I’m the fortunatest Dog!
Luc. Are you not undrest yet?
Blunt. As much as my Impatience will permit. [Goes towards the Bed in his Shirt and Drawers.
Luc. Hold, Sir, put out the Light, it may betray us else.
Blunt. Any thing, I need no other Light but that of thine Eyes!—’sheartlikins, there I think I had it. [Aside. [Puts out the Candle, the Bed descends, he gropes about to find it.
—Why—why—where am I got? what, not yet?—where are you sweetest?—ah, the Rogue’s silent now—a pretty Love-trick this—how she’ll laugh at me anon!—you need not, my dear Rogue! you need not! I’m all on a fire already—come, come, now call me in for pity—Sure I’m enchanted! I have been round the Chamber, and can find neither Woman, nor Bed—I lockt the Door, I’m sure she cannot go that way; or if she cou’d, the Bed cou’d not—Enough, enough, my pretty Wanton, do not carry the Jest too far—Ha, betray’d! Dogs! Rogues! [Pimps!] help! help! [Lights on a Trap, and is let down.