Let. Ah, Phillis! I am fainting with my Fears, Hast thou no comfort for me?
[He undresses to his Gown.
Sir Feeb. Why, what art doing there—fiddle fadling—adod, you young Wenches are so loth to come to—but when your hand’s in, you have no mercy upon us poor Husbands.
Let. Why do you talk so, Sir?
Sir Feeb. Was it anger’d at the Fool’s Prattle? tum a-me, tum a-me,
I’ll undress it, effags, I will—Roguy.
Let. You are so wanton, Sir, you make me blush—I will not go to bed, unless you’ll promise me—
Sir Feeb. No bargaining, my little Hussey—what, you’ll tie my hands behind me, will you? [She goes to the Table.
Let.—What shall I do?—assist me, gentle Maid, Thy Eyes methinks put on a little hope.
Phil. Take Courage, Madam—you guess right—be confident.
Sir Feeb. No whispering, Gentlewoman—and putting Tricks into her head; that shall not cheat me of another Night—Look on that silly little round Chitty-face—look on those smiling roguish loving Eyes there—look—look how they laugh, twire, and tempt—he, Rogue—I’ll buss ‘em there, and here, and every where—ods bods—away, this is fooling and spoiling of a Man’s Stomach, with a bit here, and a bit there—to Bed—to Bed—