esolv'd to go in a young Fellow's Arms, I see.

Sir _Feeb_. Go to, _Francis_--go to.

L. _Ful_. Stand back, Sir, she recovers.

_Bel_. Alas, I found her dead upon the Floor,
--Shou'd I have left her so--if I had known your mind--

Sir _Feeb_. Was it so--was it so?--Got so, by no means, _Francis_.--

_Let_. Pardon him, Sir, for surely I had died,
Bur for his timely coming.

Sir _Feeb_. Alas, poor Pupsey--was it sick--look here--here's a fine
thing to make it well again. Come, buss, and it shall have it--oh, how I
long for Night. _Ralph_, are the Fidlers ready?

_Ral_. They are tuning in the Hall, Sir.

Sir _Feeb_. That's well, they know my mind. I hate that same twang,
twang, twang, fum, fum, fum, tweedle, tweedle, tweedle, then scrue go
the Pins, till a man's Teeth are on an edge; then snap, says a small
Gut, and there we are at a loss again. I long to be in bed with a--hey
tredodle, tredodle, tredodle,--with a hay tredool, tredodle, tredo--
[_Dancing and playing on his Stick like a Flute_.

Sir _Cau_. A prudent Man would reserve himself--Good-facks, I danc'd so
on my Wedding-day, that when I came to Bed, to my Shame be it spoken, I
fell fast asleep, and slept till morning.

L. _Ful_. Where was your Wisdom then, Sir _Cautious_? But I know what a
wise Woman ought to have done.

Sir _Feeb_. Odsbobs, that's Wormwood, that's Wormwood--I shall have my
young Hussey set a-gog too; she'll hear there are better things in the
World than she has at home, and then odsbobs, and then they'll ha't,
adod, they will, Sir _Cautious_. Ever while you live, keep a Wife
ignorant, unless a Man be as brisk as his Neighbours.

Sir _Cau_. A wise Man will keep 'em from baudy Christnings then, and
Gossipings.

Sir _Feeb_. Christnings and Gossipings! why, they are the very Schools
that debauch our Wives, as Dancing-Schools do our Daughters.

Sir _Cau_. Ay, when the overjoy'd good Man invites 'em all against that
time Twelve-month: Oh, he's a dear Man, cries one--I must marry, cries
another, here's a Man indeed--my Husband--God help him--

Sir _Feeb_. Then he falls to telling of her Grievance, till (half
maudlin) she weeps again: Just my Condition, cries a third: so the
Frolick goes round, and we poor Cuckolds are anatomiz'd, and turn'd the
right side outwards; adsbobs, we are, Sir _Cautious_.

Sir _Cau_. Ay, ay, this Grievance ought to be redrest, Sir _Feeble_; the
grave and sober part o'th' Nation are here