The Gods of Love are smiling round,
    And lead the Bridegroom on,
  And_ Hymen has the Altar crown’d. 
    While all thy sighing Lovers are undone.

  To see thee pass they throng the Plain;
    The Groves with Flowers are strown,
  And every young and envying Swain
    Wishes the hour his own. 
  Rise then, and let the God of Day,
    When thou dost to the Lover yield,
  Behold more Treasure given away
    Than he in his vast Circle e’er beheld_.

Bel.  Hah, Phillis, Leticia’s Woman!

Ging.  Fie, Mrs. Phillis, do you take us for Fiddlers that play for Hire?  I came to compliment Mrs. Leticia on her Wedding-Morning because she is my Scholar.

Phil.  She sends it only to drink her Health.

Ging.  Come, Lads, let’s to the Tavern then—­
                                       [Ex.  Musick.

Bel.  Hah! said he Leticia?  Sure, I shall turn to Marble at this News:  I harden, and cold Damps pass through my senseless Pores.—­Hah, who’s here?

Enter Gayman wrapt in his Cloke.

Gay.  ’Tis yet too early, but my Soul’s impatient,
And I must see Leticia.
                             [Goes to the door.

Bel.  Death and the Devil—­the Bridegroom!  Stay, Sir, by Heaven, you pass not this way.
    [Goes to the door as he is knocking, pushes him away, and draws.

Gay.  Hah! what art thou that durst forbid me Entrance?—­Stand off.

[They fight a little, and closing view each other.

Bel. Gayman!

Gay.  My dearest Bellmour!

Bel.  Oh thou false Friend, thou treacherous base Deceiver!

Gay.  Hah, this to me, dear Harry?

Bel.  Whither is Honour, Truth and Friendship fled?

Gay.  Why, there ne’er was such a Virtue, ’Tis all a Poet’s Dream.

Bel.  I thank you, Sir.

Gay.  I’m sorry for’t, or that ever I did any thing that could deserve it:  put up your Sword—­an honest man wou’d say how he’s offended, before he rashly draws.

Bel.  Are not you going to be married, Sir?

Gay.  No, Sir, as long as any Man in London is so, that has but a handsom Wife, Sir.

Bel.  Are you not in love, Sir?

Gay.  Most damnably,—­and wou’d fain lie with the dear jilting Gipsy.

Bel.  Hah, who would you lie with, Sir?

Gay.  You catechise me roundly—­’tis not fair to name, but I am no Starter, Harry; just as you left me, you find me.  I am for the faithless Julia still, the old Alderman’s Wife.—­’Twas high time the City should lose their Charter, when their Wives turn honest:  But pray, Sir, answer me a Question or two.