Sir Feeb. Ads bobs, and so they would—but there was no Arms, nor
Mutiny—where’s Francis?
Bel. Here, Sir.
Sir Feeb. Here, Sir—why, what a story you made of a Meeting in the Hall, and—Arms, and—a—the Devil of any thing was stirring, but a couple of old Fools, that sat gaping and waiting for one another’s business—
Bel. Such a Message was brought me, Sir.
Sir Feeb. Brought! thou’rt an Ass, Francis—but no more—come, come, let’s to bed—
Let. To Bed, Sir! what, by Day-light?—for that’s hasting on—I wou’d not for the World—the Night wou’d hide my Blushes—but the Day—wou’d let me see my self in your Embraces.
Sir Feeb. Embraces, in a Fiddlestick; why, are we not married?
Let. ‘Tis true, Sir, and Time will make me more familiar with you, but yet my Virgin Modesty forbids it. I’ll to Diana’s Chamber, the Night will come again.
Sir Feeb. For once you shall prevail; and this damn’d Jant has pretty well mortified me:—a Pox of your Mutiny, Francis.—Come, I’ll conduct thee to Diana, and lock thee in, that I may have thee safe, Rogue.—
We’ll give young Wenches leave to whine and blush, And fly those Blessings which—ads bobs, they wish.