Sir Feeb. Oh—why do I shake?—sure I’m a Man, what art thou?
Bel. I am the wrong’d, the lost and murder’d Bellmour.
Sir Feeb. O Lord! it is the same I saw last night—Oh!—hold thy dread Vengeance—pity me, and hear me—Oh! a Parson—a Parson—what shall I do—Oh! where shall I hide my self?
Bel. I’th’ utmost Borders of the Earth I’ll find thee—
Seas shall not hide thee, nor vast Mountains guard thee:
Even in the depth of Hell I’ll find thee out,
And lash thy filthy and adulterous Soul.
Sir Feeb. Oh! I am dead, I’m dead; will no Repentence save me? ‘twas that young Eye that tempted me to sin; Oh!—
Bel. See, fair Seducer, what thou’st made me do;
Look on this bleeding Wound, it reach’d my Heart,
To pluck my dear tormenting Image thence,
When News arriv’d that thou hadst broke thy Vow.
Sir Feeb. Oh Lord! oh! I’m glad he’s dead though.
Let. Oh, hide that fatal Wound, my tender Heart faints with a Sight so horrid! [Seems to Weep.
Sir Feeb. So, she’ll clear her self, and leave me in the Devil’s
Clutches.
Bel. You’ve both offended Heaven, and must repent or die.