hich since the Creation
was never capable of receiving a Lighter, yet by another Miracle the
King of _France_ was to ride there with a vast Fleet of Ships, and to
land a hundred thousand Men.

_Bel_. This is a swinging Wonder--but are there store of Mad-men there,
Sir?

_Bea_. That's another Rarity to see a Man run out of his Wits.

_Noi_. Marry, Sir, the wiser they I say.

_Bea_. Pray, Sir, what store of Miracles have you at _St. Omers?_

_Bel_. None, Sir, since that of the wonderful _Salamanca_ Doctor, who
was both here and there at the same Instant of time.

_Bea_. How, Sir? why, that's impossible.

_Bel_. That was the Wonder, Sir, because 'twas impossible.

_Noi_. But 'twas a greater, Sir, that 'twas believed.

_Enter L_. Fulb. _and_ Pert, _Sir_ Cau. _and Sir_ Feeb.

Sir _Feeb_. Enough, enough, Sir _Cautious_, we apprehend one another.
Mr. _Bearjest_, your Uncle here and I have struck the Bargain, the Wench
is yours with three thousand Pound present, and something more after
Death, which your Uncle likes well.

_Bea_. Does he so, Sir? I'm beholding to him; then 'tis not a Pin matter
whether I like or not, Sir.

Sir _Feeb_. How, Sir, not like my Daughter _Dye_?

_Bea_. Oh, Lord, Sir,--die or live, 'tis all one for that, Sir--I'll
stand to the Bargain my Uncle makes.

_Pert_. Will you so, Sir? you'll have very good luck if you do.
[_Aside_.

_Bea_. Prithee hold thy Peace, my Lady's Woman.

L. _Ful_. Sir, I beg your pardon for not waiting on you to Church--
I knew you wou'd be private.

_Enter_ Let_. fine in Jewels_.

Sir _Feeb_. You honour us too highly now, Madam.
[_Presents his Wife, who salutes her_.

L. _Ful_. Give you Joy, my dear _Leticia_! I find, Sir, you were
resolved for Youth, Wit and Beauty.

Sir _Feeb_. Ay, ay, Madam, to the Comfort of many a hoping Coxcomb: but
_Lette_,--Rogue _Lette_--thou wo't not make me free o'th' City a second
time, wo't thou entice the Rogues with the Twire and the wanton Leer
--the amorous Simper that cries, come, kiss me--then the pretty round
Lips are pouted out--he, Rogue, how I long to be at 'em!--well, she
shall never go to Church more, that she shall not.

L. _Ful_. How, Sir, not to Church, the chiefest Recreation of a City
Lady?

Sir _Feeb_. That's all one, Madam, that tricking and dressing, and
prinking and patching, is not your Devotion to Heaven,