LAETITIA _and_ FONDLEWIFE _haling out_ BELLMOUR.

FOND. Come out here, thou Ananias incarnate. Who, how now! Who have we
here?

LAET. Ha! [_Shrieks as surprised_.]

FOND. Oh thou salacious woman! Am I then brutified? Ay, I feel it
here; I sprout, I bud, I blossom, I am ripe-horn-mad. But who in the
devil's name are you? Mercy on me for swearing. But--

LAET. Oh! goodness keep us! Who are you? What are you?

BELL. Soh!

LAET. In the name of the--O! Good, my dear, don't come near it; I'm
afraid 'tis the devil; indeed, it has hoofs, dear.

FOND. Indeed, and I have horns, dear. The devil, no, I am afraid 'tis
the flesh, thou harlot. Dear, with the pox. Come Syren, speak, confess,
who is this reverend, brawny pastor.

LAET. Indeed, and indeed now, my dear Nykin, I never saw this wicked man
before.

FOND. Oh, it is a man then, it seems.

LAET. Rather, sure it is a wolf in the clothing of a sheep.

FOND. Thou art a devil in his proper clothing--woman's flesh. What, you
know nothing of him, but his fleece here! You don't love mutton? you
Magdalen unconverted.

BELL. Well, now, I know my cue.--That is, very honourably to excuse her,
and very impudently accuse myself. [_Aside_.]

LAET. Why then, I wish I may never enter into the heaven of your
embraces again, my dear, if ever I saw his face before.

FOND. O Lord! O strange! I am in admiration of your impudence. Look
at him a little better; he is more modest, I warrant you, than to deny
it. Come, were you two never face to face before? Speak.

BELL. Since all artifice is vain. And I think myself obliged to speak
the truth in justice to your wife.--No.

FOND. Humph.

LAET. No, indeed, dear.

FOND. Nay, I find you are both in a story; that I must confess. But,
what--not to be cured of the colic? Don't you know your patient, Mrs.
Quack? Oh, 'lie upon your stomach; lying upon your stomach will cure you
of the colic.' Ah! answer me, Jezebel?

LAET. Let the wicked man answer for himself: does he think I have
nothing to do but excuse him? 'tis enough if I can clear my own innocence
to my own dear.

BELL. By my troth, and so 'tis. I have been a little too backward;
that's the truth on't.

FOND. Come, sir, who are you, in the first place? And what are you?

BELL. A whore-master.

FOND. Very concise.

LAET. O beastly, impudent creature.

FOND. Well, sir, and what came you hither for?

BELL. To lie wit