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Mason. 14 'A Relation of the Fearful Estate of Frances Spira. He had been a Protestant, but, for some unworthy motives, became a Papist, and was visited with the most awful compunctions of conscience. A poetical introduction thus describes the guilty wretch: 'Reader, wou'dst see what, may you never feel, Despair, racks, torments, whips of burning steel?
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.
Is't possible, Leticia, thou wou'dst fly To foreign Shores with me? Let. Can Bellmour doubt the Soul he knows so well? Bel. Perhaps in time the King may find my Innocence, and may extend his Mercy: Mean time I'll make provision for our Flight. Let. But how 'twixt this and that can I defend My self from the loath'd Arms of an impatient Dotard, That I may come a spotless Maid to thee? Bel.
Bellmour, I shou'd be so too But I am past it Well, I have had my Pantings, and Heavings, my Impatience, and Qualms, my Heats, and my Colds, and my I know not whats But I thank my Stars, I have done with all those Fooleries. Cel. Fooleries! Is there any thing in Life but Love? Wou'dst thou praise Heaven for thy Being, Without that grateful part of it? For I confess I love. Nur. Cel.
Fear not, my dear, I'll rather die than do thee wrong. Fran. Wou'd she wou'd, quickly, then there's her Honour sav'd, and her Ransom, which is better. Guz. Isa. Guil. Alas! this Separation's worse than Death. Isa. Guil. But should the Grand Seignior behold thy Beauty, thou wou'dst despise thine own dear hony Viscount to be a Sultana. Isa. A Sultana, what's that? Guil.
Here, Ralph, the Bottle, Rogue, of Sack, ye Rascal; hadst thou been a Butler worth hanging, thou wou'dst have met us at the door with it. Ods bods, Sweet-heart, thy health. Bear. Away with it, to the Bride's Haunce in Kelder. Sir Feeb. Let. I die but to imagine it, wou'd I were dead indeed. Sir Feeb. Hah hum how's this? Tears upon the Wedding day? Sir Cau.
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