_To preserve thee, what is’t I wou’d not do? Forfeit my Heaven, nay more, I forfeit you_. [_Exit_. SCENE V. _The Street_. _Enter Sir_ Timothy Tawdrey, Sham _and_ Sharp. Sir _Tim_. Now, _Sham_, art not thou a damn’d lying Rogue, to make me saunter up and down the _Mall_ all this Morning, after a Woman that thou know’st in thy Conscience was not likely to be there? _Sham_. Why, Sir--if her Maid will be a jilting Whore, how can I help it?--_Sharp_, thou know’st we presented her handsomly, and she protested she’d do’t. _Sharp_. Ay, ay, Sir: But the Devil a Maid we saw. [_Aside_. _Sham_. Sir, it may be Things have so fallen out, that she could not possibly come. Sir _Tim_. Things! a Pox of your Tricks--Well, I see there’s no trusting a poor Devil--Well, what Device will your Rogueship find out to cheat me next? _Sham_. Prithee help me out at a dead lift, _Sharp_. [_Aside_. _Sharp_. Cheat you, Sir!--if I ben’t reveng’d on this She-Counsellor of the Patching and Painting, this Letter-in of Midnight Lovers, this Receiver of Bribes for stol’n Pleasures; may I be condemn’d never to make love to any thing of higher Quality. Sir _Tim_. Nay, nay, no threatning, _Sharp_; it may be she’s innocent yet--Give her t’other Bribe, and try what that will do. [_Gives him Money_. _Sham_. No, Sir, I’ll have no more to do with frail Woman, in this Case; I have a surer way to do your Business. _Enter_ Page _with a Letter_. Sir _Tim_. Is not that _Bellmour’s_ Page? _Sharp_. It is, Sir. Sir _Tim_. By Fortune, the Rogue’s looking for me; he has a Challenge in his hand too. _Sham_. No matter, Sir, huff it out. Sir _Tim_. Prithee do thee huff him, thou know’st the way on’t. _Sham_. What’s your Bus’ness with Sir _Timothy_, Sir? _Page_. Mine, Sir, I don’t know the Gentleman; pray which is he? Sir _Tim_. I, I, ‘tis so--Pox on him. _Sharp_. Well, Boy, I am he--What--Your Master. _Page_. My Master, Sir-- _Sharp_. Are not you _Bellmour’s_ Page? _Page_. Yes, Sir. _Sharp_. Well, your News. _Page_. News, Sir? I know of none, but of my Master’s being this Morning-- Sir _Tim_. Ay, there it is--behind _Southampton_ House. _Page_. Married this Morning. Sir _Tim_. How! Married! ‘Slife, has he serv’d me so? _Sham_. The Boy is drunk--_Bellmour_ married! _Page_. Yes, indeed, to the Lady _Diana_. Sir _Tim_. _Diana!_ Mad, by Fortune; what _Diana_? _Page_. Niece to the Lord _Plotwell_. Sir _Tim_. Come hither, Boy--Art thou sure of this? _Page_. Sir, I am sure of it; and I am going to bespeak Musick for the Ball anon. Sir _Tim_. What hast thou there--a Letter to the Divine _Celinda_? A dainty Boy--there’s Money for to buy thee Nickers. _Page_. I humbly thank you. [_Exit_. _Sharp_. Well, Sir, if this be true, _Celinda_ will be glad of you again.