_Cel_. Oh Heaven! ‘tis true, these Eyes confirm my Fate. Yonder he is--and that fair splendid Thing, That gazes on him with such kind Desire, Is my blest Rival--Oh, he is married! --Gods! And yet you let him live; Live too with all his Charms, as fine and gay, As if you meant he shou’d undo all easy Maids, And kill ‘em for their Sin of loving him. Wretched _Celinda_! But I must turn my Eyes from looking on The fatal Triumphs of my Death--Which of all these Is my Brother? Oh, that is he: I know him By the Habit he sent for to the Play-House. [Points to Sir Tim. And hither he’s come in Masquerade, I know with some Design against my _Bellmour_, Whom though he kill me, I must still preserve: Whilst I, lost in despair, thus as a Boy Will seek a Death from any welcome Hand, Since I want Courage to perform the Sacrifice. _Enter one and dances an Entry, and a Jig at the end on’t_. _Lord_. Enough, enough at this time, let’s see the Bride to bed, the Bridegroom thinks it long. _Friend_. Hell! Can I endure to hear all this with Patience? Shall he depart with Life to enjoy my Right, And to deprive my Sister of her due? --Stay, stay, and resign That Virgin. _Bel_. Who art thou that dar’st lay a Claim to ought that’s here? _Friend_. This Sword shall answer ye. [_Draws_. _Bel_. Though I could spare my Life, I’ll not be robb’d of it. [_Draws_. _Dia_. Oh, my dear _Bellmour_! [_All draw on_ Bellmour’s side_--Diana _holds_ Bellmour, Celinda _runs between their Swords, and defends_ Bellmour; _Sir_ Tim. Sham, _and_ Sharp _draw, and run into several Corners, with signs of Fear_. _Friend_. Who art thou, that thus fondly guard’st his Heart? [_To_ Celinda. --Be gone, and let me meet it. _Cel_. That thou mayst do through mine, but no way else. _Friend_. Here are too many to encounter, and I’ll defer my Vengeance. _Char_. Stay, Sir, we must not part so. [_Ex. Drawing at the same Door, that Sir_ Tim. _is sneaking out at_. Come back I say. [_Pulls in Sir_ Tim. Slave! Dost thou tremble?-- Sir _Tim_. Sir, I’m not the Man you look for-- By Fortune, _Sham_, we’re all undone: He has mistook me for the fighting Fellow. _Char_. Villain, defend thy Life. Sir _Tim_. Who, I, Sir? I have no quarrel to you, nor no man breathing, not I, by Fortune. _Cel_. This Coward cannot be my Brother. [_Aside_. _Char_. What made thee draw upon my Brother? Sir _Tim_. Who, I, Sir? by Fortune, I love him--I draw upon him! _Char_. I do not wonder thou canst lye, for thou’rt a Coward! Didst not thou draw upon him? Is not thy Sword yet out? Did I not see thee fierce, and active too, as if thou hadst dar’d? Sir _Tim_. Why, he’s gone, Sir; a Pox of all Mistakes and Masqueradings I say--this was your Plot, _Sham_. _Char_. Coward! Shew then thy Face.