a Dagger in his
hand, and his Disguise off_.

_Bel_. Stand--

Sir _Feeb_. Ah--

_Let_. and _Phil_. [_squeak_]--Oh, Heavens!
--why, is it _Bellmour_? [_Aside to_ Phil.

_Bel_. Go not to Bed, I guard this sacred Place,
And the Adulterer dies that enters here.

Sir _Feeb_. Oh--why do I shake?--sure I'm a Man, what art thou?

_Bel_. I am the wrong'd, the lost and murder'd _Bellmour_.

Sir _Feeb_. O Lord! it is the same I saw last night--Oh!--hold thy
dread Vengeance--pity me, and hear me--Oh! a Parson--a Parson--what
shall I do--Oh! where shall I hide my self?

_Bel_. I'th' utmost Borders of the Earth I'll find thee--
Seas shall not hide thee, nor vast Mountains guard thee:
Even in the depth of Hell I'll find thee out,
And lash thy filthy and adulterous Soul.

Sir _Feeb_. Oh! I am dead, I'm dead; will no Repentence save me? 'twas
that young Eye that tempted me to sin; Oh!--

_Bel_. See, fair Seducer, what thou'st made me do;
Look on this bleeding Wound, it reach'd my Heart,
To pluck my dear tormenting Image thence,
When News arriv'd that thou hadst broke thy Vow.

Sir _Feeb_. Oh Lord! oh! I'm glad he's dead though.

_Let_. Oh, hide that fatal Wound, my tender Heart faints with a Sight
so horrid! [_Seems to Weep_.

Sir _Feeb_. So, she'll clear her self, and leave me in the Devil's
Clutches.

_Bel_. You've both offended Heaven, and must repent or die.

Sir _Feeb_. Ah,--I do confess I was an old Fool,--bewitcht with Beauty,
besotted with Love, and do repent most heartily.

_Bel_. No, you had rather yet go on in Sin:
Thou wou'dst live on, and be a baffled Cuckold.

Sir _Feeb_. Oh, not for the World, Sir! I am convinc'd and mortifi'd.

_Bel_. Maintain her fine, undo thy Peace to please her, and still be
Cuckol'd on,--believe her,--trust her, and be Cuckol'd still.

Sir _Feeb_. I see my Folly--and my Age's Dotage--and find the Devil was
in me--yet spare my Age--ah! spare me to repent.

_Bel_. If thou repent'st, renounce her, fly her sight;--
Shun her bewitching Charms, as thou wou'dst Hell,
Those dark eternal Mansions of the dead--
Whither I must descend.

Sir _Feeb_. Oh--wou'd he were gone!--

_Bel_. Fly--be gone--depart, vanish for ever from her to some more safe
and innocent Apartment.

Sir _Feeb_. Oh, that's very hard!--

[_He goes back trembling_, Bellmour _follows in with
his Dagger up; both go out_.

_Let_. Blest be this kind Release, and yet methinks it grieves me to