Bel. To morrow, Sir! why all our Throats may be cut before to morrow.
Sir Feeb. What sayst thou, Throat cut?
Bel. Why, the City’s up in Arms, Sir, and all the Aldermen are met at Guild-Hall; some damnable Plot, Sir.
Sir Feeb. Hah—Plot—the Aldermen met at Guild-Hall!—hum—why, let ’.m meet, I’ll not lose this Night to save the Nation.
Let. Wou’d you to bed, Sir, when the weighty Affairs of State require your Presence?
Sir Feeb.—Hum—met at Guild-Hall;—my Clothes, my Gown again, Francis, I’ll out—out! what, upon my Wedding-night? No—I’ll in. [Putting on his Gown pausing, pulls it off again.
Let. For shame, Sir, shall the Reverend Council of the City debate without you?
Sir Feeb. Ay, that’s true, that’s true; come truss again, Francis, truss again—yet now I think on’t, Francis, prithee run thee to the Hall, and tell ‘em ‘tis my Wedding-night, d’ye see, Francis; and let some body give my Voice for—
Bel. What, Sir?
Sir Feeb. Adod, I cannot tell; up in Arms, say you! why, let ‘em fight
Dog, fight Bear; mun, I’ll to Bed—go—