Bel. With five hundred pounds a year Jointure, Sir.
Sir Feeb. No, that wou’d not do, the Baggage was damnably in love with a young Fellow they call Bellmour, a handsome young Rascal he was, they say, that’s truth on’t; and a pretty Estate: but happening to kill a Man he was forced to fly.
Bel. That was great pity, Sir.
Sir Feeb. Pity! hang him, Rogue, ‘sbobs, and all the young Fellows in the Town deserve it; we can never keep our Wives and Daughters honest for rampant young Dogs; and an old Fellow cannot put in amongst ‘em, under being undone, with Presenting, and the Devil and all. But what dost think I did? being damnably in love—I feign’d a Letter as from the Hague, wherein was a Relation of this same Bellmour’s being hang’d.
Bel. Is’t possible, Sir, you cou’d devise such News?
Sir Feeb. Possible, Man! I did it, I did it; she swooned at the News, shut her self up a whole Month in her Chamber; but I presented high: she sigh’d and wept, and swore she’d never marry: still I presented; she hated, loathed, spit upon me; still, adod, I presented, till I presented my self effectually in Church to her; for she at last wisely considered her Vows were cancell’d, since Bellmour was hang’d.
Bel. Faith, Sir, this was very cruel, to take away his Fame, and then his Mistress.
Sir Feeb. Cruel! thou’rt an Ass, we are but even with the brisk
Rogues, for they take away our Fame, cuckold us, and take away our
Wives: so, so, my Cap, Francis.
Bel. And do you think this Marriage lawful, Sir?
Sir Feeb. Lawful! it shall be when I’ve had Livery and Seisin of her Body—and that shall be presently Rogue,—quick—besides, this Bellmour dares as well be hang’d as come into England.