The Works of Aphra Behn Volume Iii Part 66

Sir _Feeb_. So, put it into my Cabinet,--safe, _Francis_, safe.

_Bel_. Safe, I'll warrant you, Sir.

Sir _Feeb_. My Gown, quick, quick,--t'other Sleeve, Man--so now my Night-cap; well, I'll in, throw open my Gown to fright away the Women, and jump into her Arms.

[_Exit Sir_ Feeble.

_Bel_. He's gone, quickly, oh Love inspire me!

_Enter a Footman_.

_Foot_. Sir, my Master, Sir _Cautious Fulbank_, left his Watch on the little Parlor-Table to night, and bid me call for't.

_Bel_. Hah--the Bridegroom has it, Sir, who is just gone to Bed, it shall be sent him in the Morning.

_Foot_. 'Tis very well, Sir--your Servant-- [_Exit_ Footman.

_Bel_. Let me see--here is the Watch, I took it up to keep for him--but his sending has inspir'd me with a sudden Stratagem, that will do better than Force, to secure the poor trembling _Leticia_--who, I am sure, is dying with her Fears.

[_Exit_ Bellmour.

SCENE II. _Changes to the Bed-chamber; _Leticia_ in an undressing by the Women at the Table_.

_Enter to them Sir_ Feeble Fainwou'd.

Sir _Feeb_. What's here? what's here? the prating Women still. Ods bobs, what, not in Bed yet? for shame of Love, _Leticia_.

_Let_. For shame of Modesty, Sir; you wou'd not have me go to Bed before all this Company.

Sir _Feeb_. What, the Women! why, they must see you laid, 'tis the fas.h.i.+on.

_Let_. What, with a Man? I wou'd not for the World.

Oh, _Bellmour_, where art thou with all thy promised aid? [_Aside_.

_Dia_. Nay, Madam, we shou'd see you laid indeed.

_Let_. First in my Grave, _Diana_.

Sir _Feeb_. Ods bobs, here's a Compact amongst the Women--High Treason against the Bridegroom--therefore, Ladies, withdraw, or, adod, I'll lock you all in.

[_Throws open his Gown, they run all away, he locks the Door_.

So, so, now we're alone, _Leticia_--off with this foolish Modesty, and Night Gown, and slide into my Arms.

[_She runs from him_.

H'e', my little Puskin--what, fly me, my coy _Daphne_, [_He pursues her. Knocking_.

Hah--who's that knocks--who's there?--

_Bel_. [_Within_.] 'Tis I, Sir, 'tis I, open the door presently.

Sir _Feeb_. Why, what's the matter, is the House o-fire?

_Bel_. [_Within_.] Worse, Sir, worse--

[_He opens the door, _Bellmour_ enters with the Watch in his hand_.

_Let_. 'Tis _Bellmour's_ Voice!

_Bel_. Oh, Sir, do you know this Watch?

Sir _Feeb_. This Watch!

_Bel_. Ay, Sir, this Watch?

Sir _Feeb_. This Watch!--why, prithee, why dost tell me of a Watch? 'tis Sir _Cautious Fulbank's_ Watch; what then, what a Pox dost trouble me with Watches? [_Offers to put him out, he returns_.

_Bel_. 'Tis indeed his Watch, Sir, and by this Token he has sent for you, to come immediately to his House, Sir.

Sir _Feeb_. What a Devil, art mad, _Francis_? or is his Wors.h.i.+p mad, or does he think me mad?--go, prithee tell him I'll come to him to morrow.

[_Goes to put him out_.

_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 d.a.m.nable Plot, Sir.

Sir _Feeb_. Hah--Plot--the Aldermen met at _Guild-Hall!_--hum--why, let 'em 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--

_Let_. And shall his Majesty's Service and his Safety lie unregarded for a slight Woman, Sir?

Sir _Feeb_. Hum, his Majesty!--come, haste, _Francis_, I'll away, and call _Ralph_, and the Footmen, and bid 'em arm; each Man shoulder his Musket, and advance his Pike--and bring my Artillery Implements quick--and let's away: Pupsey--b'u'y, Pupsey, I'll bring it a fine thing yet before Morning, it may be--let's away: I shall grow fond, and forget the business of the Nation--Come, follow me, _Francis_.--

[_Exit Sir_ Feeble, Bellmour _runs to_ Leticia.

_Bel_. Now, my _Leticia_, if thou e'er didst Love, If ever thou design'st to make me blest--Without delay fly this adulterous Bed.