Sir Feeb. ‘Twas thus he said.
Sir Cau. Let who’s will say it, he lies in’s Throat.
Sir Feeb. How, the Ghostly—hush—have a care—for ‘twas the Ghost of Bellmour—Oh! hide that bleeding Wound, it chills my Soul!— [Runs to the Lady Fulbank.
L. Ful. What bleeding Wound?—Heavens, are you frantick, Sir?
Sir Feeb. No—but for want of rest, I shall e’er Morning. [Weeps.
—She’s gone—she’s gone—she’s gone— [He weeps.
Sir Cau. Ay, ay, she’s gone, she’s gone indeed.
[Sir Cau. weeps.
Sir Feeb. But let her go, so I may never see that dreadful Vision —harkye, Sir—a word in your Ear—have a care of marrying a young Wife.
Sir Cau. Ay, but I have married one already. [Weeping.
Sir Feeb. Hast thou? Divorce her—flie her, quick—depart—be gone, she’ll cuckold thee—and still she’ll cuckold thee.
Sir Cau. Ay, Brother, but whose fault was that?—Why, are not you married?