Bel. Hell take him, how he teazes me! [Undressing all the while.
Sir Feeb. But is the young Rogue laid, Francis—is she stoln to Bed?
What Tricks the young Baggages have to whet a man’s Appetite?
Bel. Ay, Sir—Pox on him—he will raise my Anger up to Madness, and I shall kill him to prevent his going to Bed to her. [Aside.
Sir Feeb. A pise of those Bandstrings—the more haste the less speed.
Bel. Be it so in all things, I beseech thee, Venus.
Sir Feeb. Thy aid a little, Francis—oh, oh—thou choakest me, ’.bobs, what dost mean? [Pinches him by the Throat.
Bel. You had so hamper’d ‘em, Sir—the Devil’s very mischievous in me. [Aside.
Sir Feeb. Come, come, quick, good Francis, adod, I’m as yare as a
Hawk at the young Wanton—nimbly, good Francis, untruss, untruss.
Bel. Cramps seize ye—what shall I do? the near Approach distracts me. [Aside.
Sir Feeb. So, so, my Breeches, good Francis. But well, Francis, how dost think I got the young Jade my Wife?