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Yes, faith, Madam, I am Sir Timothy Tawdrey, at your Service Pray are not you Mrs. Celinda Dresswell? Cel. The same, but cannot return your Compliment. Sir Tim. Oh Lord, oh Lord, not return a Compliment. Faith, Ned, thy Sister's quite spoil'd, for want of Town-Education; 'tis pity, for she's devilish pretty. Friend.
Now I am well pardon me, lovely Creature, If I betray a Passion, I'm too young To've learnt the Art of hiding; I cannot hear you say that he was kind. Dia. Kind! yes, as Blasts to Flow'rs, or early Fruit; All gay I met him full of youthful Heat: But like a Damp, he dasht my kindled Flame, And all his Reason was he lov'd another, A Maid he call'd Celinda. Cel. Oh blessed Man! Dia. How, Sir? Cel.
But yet she need not speak, a Look's sufficient To call up all my Sins to my undoing She comes Oh Heav'n! she comes Enter Celinda and Diana. Cel. Sir, in Obedience to your Commands, I've brought the Lady. Dia. How! The perfidious Bellmour! The only Object of my Hate and Scorn. Bel.
Nur. Very fine! Cel. There we wou'd practise such degrees of Love, Such lasting, innocent, unheard of Joys, As all the busy World should wonder at, And, amidst all their Glories, find none such. Nur. Good lack! how prettily Love teaches his Scholars to prattle. But hear ye, fair Mrs. Celinda, you have forgot to what end and purpose you came to Town; not to marry Mr.
But since my Brother came from Italy, And brought young Bellmour to our House, How very little thou hadst said of him! How much above thy Praise, I found the Youth! Nur. Very pretty! Cel. Or I must die. Nur.
Bellmour, as I take it but Sir Timothy Tawdrey, that Spark of Men. Cel. Oh, name him not Let me not in one Moment Descend from Heaven to Hell How came that wretched thing into thy Noddle? Nur. Faith, Mistress, I took pity of thee, I saw you so elevated with Thoughts of Mr. Bellmour, I found it necessary to take you down a degree lower. Cel. Why did not Heaven make all Men like lo Bellmour?
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!
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. What's the matter here? Why, how now, Sir Timothy, what, up in Arms with the Women?
But grant I can speak, what is't you'll ask me? 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.
Fair bashful Boy, hast thou the Power to move, And yet not know the Bus'ness of thy Love? Cel. How in an instant thou hast chill'd my Blood, And made me know no Woman can be good? 'Tis Sin enough to yield but thus to sue Heav'n 'tis my Business and not meant for you. Dia.
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