[_They all draw, and_ Bellmour _stands foremost, and fights with_ Charles; _the Women run squeaking out, Sir_ Tim. Sham, _and_ Sharp _sneak behind_; Trusty _interposes_. _Trust_. Hold, hold, I beseech you, my dear Masters! Oh, what a fight is this? Two Brothers fighting with each other! Oh, were my old Master alive, this wou’d break his Heart: Oh, Sir, you’ve kill’d your Brother! _Bel_. Why, then his Portion’s paid. [Charles _wounded_. Sir _Tim_. How, kill’d! Nay, ‘tis time we departed then, and shifted for ourselves. [_Ex. Sir_ Tim. Sham _and_ Sharp. _Trust_. Oh, Sir, shall I send for a Chyrurgion? _Char_. No, for a Coach rather, I am not wounded much. [_Ex_. Trusty. _Bel_. How dar’st thou trust thy self alone with me? _Char_. Why should I fear thee? _Bel_. Because I’m mad, Mad as a Tygress rob’d of her dear Young. _Char_. What is’t that makes you so? _Bel_. My Uncle’s Politicks, Hell take him for’t, Has ruin’d me, thou and my Sister too, By marrying me to a fair hated Maid, When I had plighted all my Faith before. _Enter_ Trusty. _Trust_. Sir, here’s a Coach. _Char_. Come, Brother, will you go home with me? _Bel_. Home!--no, never to that place thou call’st so. If, when I’m dead, thou wouldst behold thy Brother, And take the last Adieu from his cold Lips, (If those so perjur’d can deserve that kindness) Inquire for lost _Celinda_, at whose Feet Thou shalt behold me fall’n a Sacrifice. Till then, I’ll let mistaken Parents know The mischiefs that ensue a broken Vow. [_Ex. severally_. ACT V. SCENE I. _Covent Garden_. _Enter_ Betty Flauntit _alone_. _Flaunt_. Sure I rose the wrong way to day, I have had such damn’d ill luck every way: First, to be sent for to such a Man as this _Bellmour_, and, as the Devil wou’d have it, to find my Knight there; then to be just upon the Point of making my Fortune, and to be interrupted by that virtuous Brother of his; then to have a Quarrel happen, that (before I could whisper him in the Ear, to say so much as, Meet me here again-- anon) forc’d me to quit the House, lest the Constable had done it for me; then that that silly Baud should discover all to my Cully. If this be not ill Luck, the Devil’s in’t--But _Driver_ must bring matters about, that I may see this liberal Squire again--But here comes my Noddy, I must pretend to be angry. _Enter Sir_ Timothy. Sir _Tim_. Lord, Lord, how ye look now, as if you had committed no Misdemeanour: Alas, good Innocent, what canst thou say for thy self, thou Renegado thou, for being false to my Bosom, say? _Flaunt_. False to your Bosom! You silly impudent Sot you--who dares accuse me? Sir _Tim_. E’en your trusty and well-beloved Friend, Mrs. _Driver_ the Baud.