They both were forfeit, when I broke my Vow, Nor cou'd my Honour with thy Fame decline; Whoe'er profanes thee, injures nought of mine.
This Night upon the Couch my self I'll lay, And like _Franciscans_, let th'ensuing Day Take care for all the Toils it brings with it; Whatever Fate arrives, I can submit.
[_Exit_.
SCENE III. _A Street_.
_Enter_ Celinda, _drest as before_.
_Cel_. Not one kind Wound to send me to my Grave, And yet between their angry Swords I ran, Expecting it from _Bellmour_, or my Brother's: Oh, my hard Fate! that gave me so much Misery, And dealt no Courage to prevent the shock.
--Why came I off alive, that fatal Place Where I beheld my _Bellmour_, in th'embrace Of my extremely fair, and lovely Rival?
--With what kind Care she did prevent my Arm, Which (greedy of the last sad-parting twine) I wou'd have thrown about him, as if she knew To what intent I made the passionate Offer?
--What have I next to do, but seek a Death Wherever I can meet it--Who comes here? [_Goes aside_.
_Enter Sir_ Timothy, Sham _and_ Sharp, _with Fidlers and Boy_.
Sir _Tim_. I believe this is the Bed-chamber Window where the Bride and Bridegroom lies.
_Sham_. Well, and what do you intend to do, if it be, Sir?
Sir _Tim_. Why, first sing a Baudy Song, and then break the Windows, in revenge for the Affront was put upon me to night.
_Sharp_. Faith, Sir, that's but a poor Revenge, and which every Footman may take of his Lady, who has turn'd him away for filching--You know, Sir, Windows are frail, and will yield to the lusty Brickbats; 'tis an Act below a Gentleman.
Sir _Tim_. That's all one, 'tis my Recreation; I serv'd a Woman so the other night, to whom my Mistress had a Pique.
_Sham_. Ay, Sir, 'tis a Revenge fit only for a Whore to take--And the Affront you receiv'd to Night, was by mistake.
Sir _Tim_. Mistake! how can that be?
_Sham_. Why, Sir, did you not mind, that he that drew upon _Bellmour_, was in the same Dress with you.
Sir _Tim_. How shou'd his be like mine?
_Sham_. Why, by the same Chance, that yours was like his--I suppose sending to the Play-house for them, as we did, they happened to send him such another Habit, for they have many such for dancing Shepherds.
Sir _Tim_. Well, I grant it a Mistake, and that shall reprieve the Windows.
_Sharp_. Then, Sir, you shew'd so much Courage, that you may bless the Minute that forc'd you to fight.
Sir _Tim_. Ay, but between you and I, 'twas well he kick'd me first, and made me angry, or I had been lustily swing'd, by Fortune--But thanks to my Spleen, that sav'd my Bones that bout--But then I did well--hah, came briskly off, and the rest.
_Sham_. With Honour, Sir, I protest.
Sir _Tim_. Come then, we'll serenade him. Come, Sirrah, tune your Pipes, and sing.
_Boy_. What shall I sing, Sir?
Sir _Tim_. Any thing sutable to the Time and Place.
SONG.
I.
_The happy Minute's come, the Nymph is laid, Who means no more to rise a Maid.
Blushing, and panting, she expects th'Approach Of Joys that kill with every touch: Nor can her native Modesty and Shame Conceal the Ardour of her Virgin Flame_.
II.
_And now the amorous Youth is all undrest, Just ready for Love's mighty Feast; With vigorous haste the Veil aside he throws, That doth all Heaven at once disclose.
Swift as Desire, into her naked Arms Himself he throws, and rifles all her Charms_.
Good morrow, Mr. _Bellmour_, and to your lovely Bride, long may you live and love.
_Enter_ Bellmour _above_.
_Bel_. Who is't has sent that Curse?
Sir _Tim_. What a Pox, is that _Bellmour_? The Rogue's in choler, the Bride has not pleas'd him.
_Bel_. Dogs! Do you upbraid me? I'll be with you presently.
Sir _Tim_. Will you so?--but I'll not stay your coming.
_Cel_. But you shall, Sir.
_Bel_. Turn, Villains!
[_Sir_ Tim. _&c. offers to go off_, Celinda _steps forth, and draws, they draw, and set upon her. Enter_ Bellmour _behind them: They turn, and_ Celinda _sides with_ Bellmour, _and fights. Enter_ Diana, Bellmour _fights 'em out, and leaves_ Celinda _breathless, leaning on her Sword_.
_Dia_. I'll ne'er demand the cause of this disorder, But take this opportunity to fly To the next hands will take me up--who's here?
_Cel_. Not yet, my sullen Heart!
_Dia_. Who's here? one wounded--alas--
_Cel_. 'Tis not so lucky--but who art thou That dost with so much pity ask?
_Dia_. He seems a Gentleman--handsome and young-- [_Aside_.
Pray ask no Questions, Sir; but if you are what you seem, Give a Protection to an unhappy Maid.
--Do not reply, but let us haste away.
_Cel_. Hah--What do I hear! sure, 'tis _Diana_.
--Madam, with haste, and joy, I'll serve you.
--I'll carry her to my own Lodgings.
Fortune, in this, has done my Sufferings right, My Rival's in my Power, upon her Wedding-Night. [_Aside_.