L. Ful.  How much redeems it?

Bred.  Madam, five hundred Pounds.

L. Ful.  Enough—­you shall in some disguise convey this Money to him, as from an unknown hand:  I wou’d not have him think it comes from me, for all the World:  That Nicety and Virtue I’ve profest, I am resolved to keep.

Pert.  If I were your Ladyship, I wou’d make use of Sir Cautious’s Cash:  pay him in his own Coin.

Bred.  Your Ladyship wou’d make no Scruple of it, if you knew how this poor Gentleman has been us’d by my unmerciful Master.

L. Ful.  I have a Key already to his Counting-House; it being lost, he had another made, and this I found and kept.

Bred.  Madam, this is an excellent time for’t, my Master being gone to give my Sister Leticia at Church.

L. Ful.  ’Tis so, I’ll go and commit the Theft, whilst you prepare to carry it, and then we’ll to dinner with your Sister the Bride.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III. The House of Sir Feeble.

Enter Sir Feeble, Leticia, Sir Cautious, Bearjest, Diana, Noisey.
Sir Feeble sings and salutes ’em.

Sir Feeb.  Welcome, Joan Sanderson, welcome, welcome. [Kisses the Bride.  Ods bobs, and so thou art, Sweet-heart. [So to the rest.

Bear.  Methinks my Lady Bride is very melancholy.

Sir Cau.  Ay, ay, Women that are discreet, are always thus upon their
Wedding-day.

Sir Feeb.  Always by day-light, Sir Cautious.

But when bright Phoebus does retire, To Thetis’ Bed to quench his fire.  And do the thing we need not name, We Mortals by his influence do the same.  Then then the blushing Maid lays by Her simpering, and her Modesty; And round the Lover clasps and twines Like Ivy, or the circling Vines.

Sir Feeb.  Here, Ralph, the Bottle, Rogue, of Sack, ye Rascal; hadst thou been a Butler worth hanging, thou wou’dst have met us at the door with it.—­Ods bods, Sweet-heart, thy health.

Bear.  Away with it, to the Bride’s Haunce in Kelder.

Sir Feeb.  Gots so, go to, Rogue, go to, that shall be, Knave, that shall be the morrow morning; he—­ods bobs, we’ll do’t, Sweet heart; here’s to’t. [Drinks again.

Let.  I die but to imagine it, wou’d I were dead indeed.

Sir Feeb.  Hah—­hum—­how’s this?  Tears upon the Wedding day?  Why, why—­you Baggage, you, ye little Thing, Fools-face—­away, you Rogue, you’re naughty, you’re naughty. [Patting and playing, and following her.  Look—­look—­look now,—­buss it—­buss it—­buss it—­and Friends; did’ums, did’ums beat its none silly Baby—­away, you little Hussey, away, and pledge me—­
                         [She drinks a little.