_Sharp_. Faith, Sir, that’s but a poor Revenge, and which every Footman may take of his Lady, who has turn’d him away for filching--You know, Sir, Windows are frail, and will yield to the lusty Brickbats; ‘tis an Act below a Gentleman. Sir _Tim_. That’s all one, ‘tis my Recreation; I serv’d a Woman so the other night, to whom my Mistress had a Pique. _Sham_. Ay, Sir, ‘tis a Revenge fit only for a Whore to take--And the Affront you receiv’d to Night, was by mistake. Sir _Tim_. Mistake! how can that be? _Sham_. Why, Sir, did you not mind, that he that drew upon _Bellmour_, was in the same Dress with you. Sir _Tim_. How shou’d his be like mine? _Sham_. Why, by the same Chance, that yours was like his--I suppose sending to the Play-house for them, as we did, they happened to send him such another Habit, for they have many such for dancing Shepherds. Sir _Tim_. Well, I grant it a Mistake, and that shall reprieve the Windows. _Sharp_. Then, Sir, you shew’d so much Courage, that you may bless the Minute that forc’d you to fight. Sir _Tim_. Ay, but between you and I, ‘twas well he kick’d me first, and made me angry, or I had been lustily swing’d, by Fortune--But thanks to my Spleen, that sav’d my Bones that bout--But then I did well--hah, came briskly off, and the rest. _Sham_. With Honour, Sir, I protest. Sir _Tim_. Come then, we’ll serenade him. Come, Sirrah, tune your Pipes, and sing. _Boy_. What shall I sing, Sir? Sir _Tim_. Any thing sutable to the Time and Place. SONG. I. _The happy Minute’s come, the Nymph is laid, Who means no more to rise a Maid. Blushing, and panting, she expects th’.pproach Of Joys that kill with every touch: Nor can her native Modesty and Shame Conceal the Ardour of her Virgin Flame_. II. _And now the amorous Youth is all undrest, Just ready for Love’s mighty Feast; With vigorous haste the Veil aside he throws, That doth all Heaven at once disclose. Swift as Desire, into her naked Arms Himself he throws, and rifles all her Charms_. Good morrow, Mr. _Bellmour_, and to your lovely Bride, long may you live and love. _Enter_ Bellmour _above_. _Bel_. Who is’t has sent that Curse? Sir _Tim_. What a Pox, is that _Bellmour_? The Rogue’s in choler, the Bride has not pleas’d him. _Bel_. Dogs! Do you upbraid me? I’ll be with you presently. Sir _Tim_. Will you so?--but I’ll not stay your coming. _Cel_. But you shall, Sir. _Bel_. Turn, Villains! [_Sir_ Tim. _&c. offers to go off_, Celinda _steps forth, and draws, they draw, and set upon her. Enter_ Bellmour _behind them: They turn, and_ Celinda _sides with_ Bellmour, _and fights. Enter_ Diana, Bellmour _fights ‘em out, and leaves_ Celinda _breathless, leaning on her Sword_. _Dia_. I’ll ne’er demand the cause of this disorder, But take this opportunity to fly To the next hands will take me up--who’s here? _Cel_. Not yet, my sullen Heart! _Dia_. Who’s here? one wounded--alas--