Sir _Tim_. Can you love?
_Cel_. Oh, yes, Sir, many things; I love my Meat, I love abundance of Adorers, I love choice of new Clothes, new Plays; and, like a right Woman, I love to have my Will.
Sir _Tim_. Spoke like a well-bred Person, by Fortune: I see there's hopes of thee, Celinda; thou wilt in time learn to make a very fashionable Wife, having so much Beauty too. I see Attracts, and Allurements, wanton Eyes, the languishing turn of the Head, and all That invites to Temptation.
_Cel_. Would that please you in a Wife?
Sir _Tim_. Please me! Why, Madam, what do you take me to be? a Sot?-- a Fool?--or a dull _Italian_ of the Humour of your Brother?--No, no, I can assure you, she that marries me, shall have Franchise--But, my pretty Miss, you must learn to talk a little more--
_Cel_. I have not Wit, and Sense enough, for that.
Sir _Tim_. Wit! Oh la, O la, Wit! as if there were any Wit requir'd in a Woman when she talks; no, no matter for Wit, or Sense: talk but loud, and a great deal to shew your white Teeth, and smile, and be very confident, and 'tis enough--Lord, what a Sight 'tis to see a pretty Woman Stand right up an end in the middle of a Room, playing with her Fan, for want of something to keep her in Countenance. No, she that is mine, I will teach to entertain at another rate.
_Nur_. How, Sir? Why, what do you take my young Mistress to be?
Sir _Tim_. A Woman--and a fine one, and so fine as she ought to permit her self to be seen, and be ador'd.
_Nur_. Out upon you, would you expose your Wife? by my troth, and I were she, I know what I wou'd do--
Sir _Tim_. Thou do--what thou wouldst have done sixty Years ago, thou meanest.
_Nur_. Marry come up, for a stinking Knight; worse than I have gone down with you, e'er now--Sixty Years ago, quoth ye--As old as I am-- I live without Surgeons, wear my own Hair, am not in Debt to my Taylor, as thou art, and art fain to kiss his Wife, to persuade her Husband to be merciful to thee--who wakes thee every Morning with his Clamour and long Bills, at thy Chamber-door.
Sir _Tim_. Prithee, good Matron, Peace; I'll compound with thee.
_Nur_. 'Tis more than thou wilt do with thy Creditors, who, poor Souls, despair of a Groat in the Pound for all thou ow'st them, for Points, Lace, and Garniture--for all, in fine, that makes thee a complete Fop.
Sir _Tim_. Hold, hold thy eternal Clack.
_Nur_. And when none would trust thee farther, give Judgments for twice the Money thou borrowest, and swear thy self at Age; and lastly--to patch up your broken Fortune, you wou'd fain marry my sweet Mistress _Celinda_ here--But, Faith, Sir, you're mistaken, her Fortune shall not go to the Maintenance of your Misses; which being once sure of, she, poor Soul, is sent down to the Country-house, to learn Housewifery, and live without Mankind, unless she can serve her self with the handsom Steward, or so--whilst you tear it away in Town, and live like Man and Wife with your Jilt, and are every Day seen in the Glass Coach, whilst your own natural Lady is hardly worth the Hire of a Hack.
Sir _Tim_. Why, thou damnable confounded Torment, wilt thou never cease?
_Nur_. No, not till you raise your Siege, and be gone; go march to your Lady of Love, and Debauch--go--You get no _Celinda_ here.
Sir _Tim_. The Devil's in her Tongue.
_Cel_. Good gentle Nurse, have Mercy upon the poor Knight.
_Nur_. No more, Mistress, than he'll have on you, if Heaven had so abandon'd you, to put you into his Power--Mercy--quoth ye--no--, no more than his Mistress will have, when all his Money's gone.
Sir _Tim_. Will she never end?
_Cel_. Prithee forbear.
_Nur_. No more than the Usurer would, to whom he has mortgag'd the best part of his Estate, would forbear a Day after the promis'd Payment of the Money. Forbear!--
Sir _Tim_. Not yet end! Can I, Madam, give you a greater Proof of my Passion for you, than to endure this for your sake?
_Nur_. This--thou art so sorry a Creature, thou wilt endure any thing for the lucre of her Fortune; 'tis that thou hast a Passion for: not that thou carest for Money, but to sacrifice to thy Leudness, to purchase a Mistress, to purchase the Reputation of as errant a Fool as ever arriv'd at the Honour of keeping; to purchase a little Grandeur, as you call it; that is, to make every one look at thee, and consider what a Fool thou art, who else might pass unregarded amongst the common Croud.
Sir _Tim_. The Devil's in her Tongue, and so 'tis in most Women's of her Age; for when it has quitted the Tail, it repairs to her upper Tire.
_Nur_. Do not persuade me, Madam, I am resolv'd to make him weary of his Wooing.
Sir _Tim_. So, God be prais'd, the Storm is laid--And now, Mrs. _Celinda_, give me leave to ask you, if it be with your leave, this Affront is put on a Man of my Quality?
_Nur_. Thy Quality--
Sir _Tim_. Yes; I am a Gentleman, and a Knight.
_Nur_. Yes, Sir, Knight of the ill-favour'd Countenance is it?
Sir _Tim_. You are beholding to _Don Quixot_ for that, and 'tis so many Ages since thou couldst see to read, I wonder thou hast not forgot all that ever belong'd to Books.
_Nur_. My Eye-sight is good enough to see thee in all thy Colours, thou Knight of the burning Pestle thou.
Sir _Tim_. Agen, that was out of a Play--Hark ye, Witch of _Endor_, hold your prating Tongue, or I shall most well-favour'dly cudgel ye.
_Nur_. As your Friend the Hostess has it in a Play too, I take it, Ends which you pick up behind the Scenes, when you go to be laught at even by the Player-Women.
Sir _Tim_. Wilt thou have done? By Fortune, I'll endure no more--
_Nur_. Murder, Murder!
Cel. Hold, hold.
_Enter_ Friendlove, Bellmour, Sham _and_ Sharp.
_Friend_. Read here the worst of News that can arrive, [_Gives_ Bellm. _a Letter_.
--What's the matter here? Why, how now, Sir _Timothy_, what, up in Arms with the Women?
Sir _Tim_. Oh, Ned, I'm glad thou'rt come--never was _Tom Dove_ baited as I have been.
_Friend_. By whom? my Sister?
Sir _Tim_. No, no, that old Mastiff there--the young Whelp came not on, thanks be prais'd.
_Bel_. How, her Father here to morrow, and here he says, that shall be the last Moment, he will defer the Marriage of _Celinda_ to this Sot-- Oh God, I shall grow mad, and so undo 'em all--I'll kill the Villain at the Altar--By my lost hopes, I will--And yet there is some left--Could I but--speak to her--I must rely on _Dresswell's_ Friendship--Oh God, to morrow--Can I endure that thought? Can I endure to see the Traytor there, who must to morrow rob me of my Heaven?--I'll own my Flame--and boldly tell this Fop, she must be mine--
_Friend_. I assure you, Sir _Timothy_, I am sorry, and will chastise her.
Sir _Tim_. Ay, Sir, I that am a Knight--a Man of Parts and Wit, and one that is to be your Brother, and design'd to be the Glory of marrying _Celinda_.
_Bel_. I can endure no more--How, Sir--You marry fair _Celinda!_
Sir _Tim_. Ay, _Frank_, ay--is she not a pretty little plump white Rogue, hah?