_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_.