FONDLEWIFE _returns with Papers_.
FOND. Good lack! good lack! I profess the poor man is in great torment;
he lies as flat—Dear, you should heat a trencher, or a napkin.—Where’s
Deborah? Let her clap some warm thing to his stomach, or chafe it with a
warm hand rather than fail. What book’s this? [_Sees the book that_
BELLMOUR _forgot_.]
LÆT. Mr. Spintext’s prayer-book, dear. Pray Heaven it be a prayer-book.
[_Aside_.]
FOND. Good man! I warrant he dropped it on purpose that you might take
it up and read some of the pious ejaculations. [_Taking up the book_.]
O bless me! O monstrous! A prayer-book? Ay, this is the devil’s
paternoster. Hold, let me see: The Innocent Adultery.
LÆT. Misfortune! now all’s ruined again. [_Aside_.]
BELL. [_Peeping_]. Damned chance! If I had gone a-whoring with the
Practice of Piety in my pocket I had never been discovered.
FOND. Adultery, and innocent! O Lord! Here’s doctrine! Ay, here’s
discipline!
LÆT. Dear husband, I’m amazed. Sure it is a good book, and only tends
to the speculation of sin.
FOND. Speculation! No no; something went farther than speculation when
I was not to be let in.—Where is this apocryphal elder? I’ll ferret him.
LÆT. I’m so distracted, I can’t think of a lie. [_Aside_.]