remember you're proscribed,
And die if you are taken.

_Bel_. I've done, and I will live, but he shall ne'er enjoy her.
--Who's yonder, _Ralph_, my trusty Confident?

_Enter_ Ralph.

Now though I perish I must speak to him.
--Friend, what Wedding's this?

_Ral_. One that was never made in Heaven, Sir;
'Tis Alderman _Fainwou'd_, and Mrs. _Leticia Bredwel_.

_Bel_. Bredwel--I have heard of her,--she was Mistress--

_Ral_. To fine Mr. _Bellmour_, Sir,--ay, there was a Gentleman
--But rest his Soul--he's hang'd, Sir. [_Weeps_.

_Bel_. How! hang'd?

_Ral_. Hang'd, Sir, hang'd--at the _Hague_ in _Holland_.

_Gay_. I heard some such News, but did not credit it.

_Bel_. For what, said they, was he hang'd?

_Ral_. Why, e'en for High Treason, Sir, he killed one of their Kings.

_Gay_. Holland's a Commonwealth, and is not rul'd by Kings.

_Ral_. Not by one, Sir, but by a great many; this was a Cheesemonger
--they fell out over a Bottle of Brandy, went to Snicker Snee; Mr.
_Bellmour_ cut his Throat, and was hang'd for't, that's all, Sir.

_Bel_. And did the young Lady believe this?

_Ral_. Yes, and took on most heavily--the Doctors gave her over--and
there was the Devil to do to get her to consent to this Marriage--but
her Fortune was small, and the hope of a Ladyship, and a Gold Chain at
the Spittal Sermon, did the Business--and so your Servant, Sir.
[_Ex_. Ralph.

_Bel_. So, here's a hopeful Account of my sweet self now.

_Enter Post-man with Letters_.

_Post_. Pray, Sir, which is Sir _Feeble Fainwou'd's_?

_Bel_. What wou'd you with him, Friend?

_Post_. I have a Letter here from the _Hague_ for him.

_Bel_. From the _Hague_! Now have I a curiosity to see it--I am his
Servant--give it me--[_Gives it him, and Exit_.--Perhaps here may be
the second part of my Tragedy, I'm full of Mischief, _Charles_--and have
a mind to see this Fellow's Secrets. For from this hour I'll be his evil
Genius, haunt him at Bed and Board; he shall not sleep nor eat; disturb
him at his Prayers, in his Embraces; and teaze him into Madness. Help
me, Invention, Malice, Love, and Wit: [_Opening the Letter_.
Ye Gods, and little Fiends, instruct my Mischief. [_Reads_.

Dear Brother,

_According to your desire I have sent for my Son from
_St. Omer's_, whom I have sent to wait on you in_ England;
_he is a very good Accountant, and fit for Business, and muc