_Nur_. How, Sir? Why, what do you take my young Mistress to be? Sir _Tim_. A Woman--and a fine one, and so fine as she ought to permit her self to be seen, and be ador’d. _Nur_. Out upon you, would you expose your Wife? by my troth, and I were she, I know what I wou’d do-- Sir _Tim_. Thou do--what thou wouldst have done sixty Years ago, thou meanest. _Nur_. Marry come up, for a stinking Knight; worse than I have gone down with you, e’er now--Sixty Years ago, quoth ye--As old as I am-- I live without Surgeons, wear my own Hair, am not in Debt to my Taylor, as thou art, and art fain to kiss his Wife, to persuade her Husband to be merciful to thee--who wakes thee every Morning with his Clamour and long Bills, at thy Chamber-door. Sir _Tim_. Prithee, good Matron, Peace; I’ll compound with thee. _Nur_. ‘Tis more than thou wilt do with thy Creditors, who, poor Souls, despair of a Groat in the Pound for all thou ow’st them, for Points, Lace, and Garniture--for all, in fine, that makes thee a complete Fop. Sir _Tim_. Hold, hold thy eternal Clack. _Nur_. And when none would trust thee farther, give Judgments for twice the Money thou borrowest, and swear thy self at Age; and lastly--to patch up your broken Fortune, you wou’d fain marry my sweet Mistress _Celinda_ here--But, Faith, Sir, you’re mistaken, her Fortune shall not go to the Maintenance of your Misses; which being once sure of, she, poor Soul, is sent down to the Country-house, to learn Housewifery, and live without Mankind, unless she can serve her self with the handsom Steward, or so--whilst you tear it away in Town, and live like Man and Wife with your Jilt, and are every Day seen in the Glass Coach, whilst your own natural Lady is hardly worth the Hire of a Hack. Sir _Tim_. Why, thou damnable confounded Torment, wilt thou never cease? _Nur_. No, not till you raise your Siege, and be gone; go march to your Lady of Love, and Debauch--go--You get no _Celinda_ here. Sir _Tim_. The Devil’s in her Tongue. _Cel_. Good gentle Nurse, have Mercy upon the poor Knight. _Nur_. No more, Mistress, than he’ll have on you, if Heaven had so abandon’d you, to put you into his Power--Mercy--quoth ye--no--, no more than his Mistress will have, when all his Money’s gone. Sir _Tim_. Will she never end? _Cel_. Prithee forbear. _Nur_. No more than the Usurer would, to whom he has mortgag’d the best part of his Estate, would forbear a Day after the promis’d Payment of the Money. Forbear!-- Sir _Tim_. Not yet end! Can I, Madam, give you a greater Proof of my Passion for you, than to endure this for your sake?