Chapter 2

_Enter_ Celinda, _and_ Nurse.

_Cel_. I wonder my Brother stays so long: sure Mr. _Bellmour_ is not yet arriv’d, yet he sent us word he would be here to day. Lord, how impatient I grow!

_Nur_. Ay, so methinks; if I had the hopes of enjoying so sweet a Gentleman as Mr. _Bellmour_, I shou’d be so too--But I am past it--Well, I have had my Pantings, and Heavings, my Impatience, and Qualms, my Heats, and my Colds, and my I know not whats--But I thank my Stars, I have done with all those Fooleries.

_Cel_. Fooleries!-- Is there any thing in Life but Love? Wou’dst thou praise Heaven for thy Being, Without that grateful part of it? For I confess I love.

_Nur_. You need not, your Sighs, and daily (nay, and nightly too) Disorders, plainly enough betray the Truth.

_Cel_. Thou speak’st as if it were a Sin: But if it be so, you your self help’d to make me wicked. For e’er I saw Mr. _Bellmour_, you spoke the kindest things of him, As would have mov’d the dullest Maid to love; And e’er I saw him, I was quite undone.

_Nur_. Quite undone! Now God forbid it; what, for loving? You said but now there was no Life without it.

_Cel_. But since my Brother came from _Italy_, And brought young _Bellmour_ to our House, How very little thou hadst said of him! How much above thy Praise, I found the Youth!

_Nur_. Very pretty! You are grown a notable Proficient in Love--And you are resolv’d (if he please) to marry him?

_Cel_. Or I must die.

_Nur_. Ay, but you know the Lord _Plotwell_ has the Possession of all his Estate, and if he marry without his liking, has Power to take away all his Fortune, and then I think it were not so good marrying him.

_Cel_. Not marrying him! Oh, canst thou think so poorly of me? Yes, I would marry him, though our scanty Fortune Cou’d only purchase us A lonely Cottage, in some silent Place, All cover’d o’er with Thatch, Defended from the Outrages of Storms By leafless Trees, in Winter; and from Heat, With Shades, which their kind Boughs wou’d bear anew; Under whose Covert we’d feed our gentle Flock, That shou’d in gratitude repay us Food, And mean and humble Clothing.

_Nur_. Very fine!

_Cel_. There we wou’d practise such degrees of Love, Such lasting, innocent, unheard of Joys, As all the busy World should wonder at, And, amidst all their Glories, find none such.

_Nur_. Good lack! how prettily Love teaches his Scholars to prattle.-- But hear ye, fair Mrs. _Celinda_, you have forgot to what end and purpose you came to Town; not to marry Mr. _Bellmour_, as I take it--but Sir _Timothy Tawdrey_, that Spark of Men.

_Cel_. Oh, name him not--Let me not in one Moment Descend from Heaven to Hell-- How came that wretched thing into thy Noddle?

_Nur_. Faith, Mistress, I took pity of thee, I saw you so elevated with Thoughts of Mr. _Bellmour_, I found it necessary to take you down a degree lower.

_Cel_. Why did not Heaven make all Men like lo _Bellmour_? So strangely sweet and charming!

_Nur_. Marry come up, you speak well for your self; Oh intolerable loving Creature! But here comes the utmost of your Wishes.

_Cel_. My Brother, and _Bellmour_! with strange Men!

_Enter_ Friendlove, Bellmour, _Sir_ Timothy, Sham, _and_ Sharp.

_Friend_. Sister, I’ve brought you here a Lover, this is the worthy Person you have heard of, Sir _Timothy Tawdrey_.

Sir _Tim_. Yes, faith, Madam, I am Sir _Timothy Tawdrey_, at your Service--Pray are not you Mrs. _Celinda Dresswell_?

_Cel_. The same, but cannot return your Compliment.

Sir _Tim_. Oh Lord, oh Lord, not return a Compliment. Faith, _Ned_, thy Sister’s quite spoil’d, for want of Town-Education; ‘tis pity, for she’s devilish pretty.

_Friend_. She’s modest, Sir, before Company; therefore these Gentlemen and I will withdraw into the next Room.

_Cel_. Inhuman Brother! Will you leave me alone with this Sot?

_Friend_. Yes, and if you would be rid of the trouble of him, be not coy, nor witty; two things he hates.

_Bel_. ‘Sdeath! Must she be blown upon by that Fool?

_Friend_. Patience, dear _Frank_, a little while.

[_Exeunt_ Friend. Bell. Sham _and_ Sharp.

[Sir Timothy _walks about the Room, expecting when_ Celinda _should speak_.

_Cel_. Oh, dear Nurse, what shall I do?

_Nur_. I that ever help you at a dead Lift, will not fail you now.

Sir _Tim_. What a Pox, not a Word?

_Cel_. Sure this Fellow believes I’ll begin.

Sir _Tim_. Not yet--sure she has spoke her last--

_Nur_. The Gentleman’s good-natur’d, and has took pity on you, and will not trouble you, I think.

Sir _Tim_.--Hey day, here’s Wooing indeed--Will she never begin, trow? --This some would call an excellent Quality in her Sex--But a pox on’t, I do not like it--Well, I see I must break Silence at last--Madam--not answer me--’shaw, this is mere ill breeding--by Fortune--it can be nothing else--O’ my Conscience, if I should kiss her, she would bid me stand off--I’ll try--

_Nur_. Hold, Sir, you mistake your Mark.

Sir _Tim_. So I should, if I were to look in thy mouldy Chaps, good Matron--Can your Lady speak?

_Nur_. Try, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. Which way?

_Nur_. Why, speak to her first.

Sir _Tim_. I never knew a Woman want a Cue for that; but all that I Have met with were still before-hand with me in tittle tattle.

_Nur_. Likely those you have met with may, but this is no such Creature, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. I must confess, I am unus’d to this kind of Dialogue; and I am an Ass, if I know what to say to such a Creature. --But come, will you answer me to one Question?

_Cel_. If I can, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. But first I should ask you if you can speak? For that’s a Question too.

_Cel_. And if I cannot, how will you be answer’d?

Sir _Tim_. Faith, that’s right; why, then you must do’t by signs.

_Cel_. But grant I can speak, what is’t you’ll ask me?

Sir _Tim_. Can you love?

_Cel_. Oh, yes, Sir, many things; I love my Meat, I love abundance of Adorers, I love choice of new Clothes, new Plays; and, like a right Woman, I love to have my Will.

Sir _Tim_. Spoke like a well-bred Person, by Fortune: I see there’s hopes of thee, Celinda; thou wilt in time learn to make a very fashionable Wife, having so much Beauty too. I see Attracts, and Allurements, wanton Eyes, the languishing turn of the Head, and all That invites to Temptation.

_Cel_. Would that please you in a Wife?

Sir _Tim_. Please me! Why, Madam, what do you take me to be? a Sot?-- a Fool?--or a dull _Italian_ of the Humour of your Brother?--No, no, I can assure you, she that marries me, shall have Franchise--But, my pretty Miss, you must learn to talk a little more--

_Cel_. I have not Wit, and Sense enough, for that.

Sir _Tim_. Wit! Oh la, O la, Wit! as if there were any Wit requir’d in a Woman when she talks; no, no matter for Wit, or Sense: talk but loud, and a great deal to shew your white Teeth, and smile, and be very confident, and ‘tis enough--Lord, what a Sight ‘tis to see a pretty Woman Stand right up an end in the middle of a Room, playing with her Fan, for want of something to keep her in Countenance. No, she that is mine, I will teach to entertain at another rate.

_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?

_Nur_. This--thou art so sorry a Creature, thou wilt endure any thing for the lucre of her Fortune; ‘tis that thou hast a Passion for: not that thou carest for Money, but to sacrifice to thy Leudness, to purchase a Mistress, to purchase the Reputation of as errant a Fool as ever arriv’d at the Honour of keeping; to purchase a little Grandeur, as you call it; that is, to make every one look at thee, and consider what a Fool thou art, who else might pass unregarded amongst the common Croud.

Sir _Tim_. The Devil’s in her Tongue, and so ‘tis in most Women’s of her Age; for when it has quitted the Tail, it repairs to her upper Tire.

_Nur_. Do not persuade me, Madam, I am resolv’d to make him weary of his Wooing.

Sir _Tim_. So, God be prais’d, the Storm is laid--And now, Mrs. _Celinda_, give me leave to ask you, if it be with your leave, this Affront is put on a Man of my Quality?

_Nur_. Thy Quality--

Sir _Tim_. Yes; I am a Gentleman, and a Knight.

_Nur_. Yes, Sir, Knight of the ill-favour’d Countenance is it?

Sir _Tim_. You are beholding to _Don Quixot_ for that, and ‘tis so many Ages since thou couldst see to read, I wonder thou hast not forgot all that ever belong’d to Books.

_Nur_. My Eye-sight is good enough to see thee in all thy Colours, thou Knight of the burning Pestle thou.

Sir _Tim_. Agen, that was out of a Play--Hark ye, Witch of _Endor_, hold your prating Tongue, or I shall most well-favour’dly cudgel ye.

_Nur_. As your Friend the Hostess has it in a Play too, I take it, Ends which you pick up behind the Scenes, when you go to be laught at even by the Player-Women.

Sir _Tim_. Wilt thou have done? By Fortune, I’ll endure no more--

_Nur_. Murder, Murder!

Cel. Hold, hold.

_Enter_ Friendlove, Bellmour, Sham _and_ Sharp.

_Friend_. Read here the worst of News that can arrive, [_Gives_ Bellm. _a Letter_. --What’s the matter here? Why, how now, Sir _Timothy_, what, up in Arms with the Women?

Sir _Tim_. Oh, Ned, I’m glad thou’rt come--never was _Tom Dove_ baited as I have been.

_Friend_. By whom? my Sister?

Sir _Tim_. No, no, that old Mastiff there--the young Whelp came not on, thanks be prais’d.

_Bel_. How, her Father here to morrow, and here he says, that shall be the last Moment, he will defer the Marriage of _Celinda_ to this Sot-- Oh God, I shall grow mad, and so undo ‘em all--I’ll kill the Villain at the Altar--By my lost hopes, I will--And yet there is some left--Could I but--speak to her--I must rely on _Dresswell’s_ Friendship--Oh God, to morrow--Can I endure that thought? Can I endure to see the Traytor there, who must to morrow rob me of my Heaven?--I’ll own my Flame--and boldly tell this Fop, she must be mine--

_Friend_. I assure you, Sir _Timothy_, I am sorry, and will chastise her.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, Sir, I that am a Knight--a Man of Parts and Wit, and one that is to be your Brother, and design’d to be the Glory of marrying _Celinda_.

_Bel_. I can endure no more--How, Sir--You marry fair _Celinda!_

Sir _Tim_. Ay, _Frank_, ay--is she not a pretty little plump white Rogue, hah?

_Bel_. Yes.

Sir _Tim_. Oh, I had forgot thou art a modest Rogue, and to thy eternal Shame, hadst never the Reputation of a Mistress--Lord, Lord, that I could see thee address thy self to a Lady--I fancy thee a very ridiculous Figure in that Posture, by Fortune.

_Bel_. Why, Sir, I can court a Lady--

Sir _Tim_. No, no, thou’rt modest; that is to say, a Country Gentleman; that is to say, ill-bred; that is to say, a Fool, by Fortune, as the World goes.

_Bel_. Neither, Sir--I can love--and tell it too--and that you may believe me--look on this Lady, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. Look on this Lady, Sir--Ha, ha, ha,--Well, Sir--Well, Sir-- And what then?

_Bel_. Nay, view her well, Sir--

Sir. _Tim_. Pleasant this--Well, _Frank_, I do--And what then?

_Bel_. Is she not charming fair--fair to a wonder!

Sir _Tim_. Well, Sir, ‘tis granted--

_Bel_. And canst thou think this Beauty meant for thee, for thee, dull common Man?

Sir _Tim_. Very well, what will he say next?

_Bel_. I say, let me no more see thee approach this Lady.

Sir _Tim_. How, Sir, how?

_Bel_. Not speak to her, not look on her--by Heaven--not think of her.

Sir _Tim_. How, _Frank_, art in earnest?

_Bel_. Try, if thou dar’st.

Sir _Tim_. Not think of her!--

_Bel_. No, not so much as in a Dream, could I divine it.

Sir _Tim_. Is he in earnest, Mr. _Friendlove_?

_Friend_. I doubt so, Sir _Timothy_.

Sir _Tim_. What, does he then pretend to your Sister?

_Bel_. Yes, and no Man else shall dare do so.

Sir _Tim_. Take notice I am affronted in your Lodgings--for you, _Bellmour_--You take me for an Ass--therefore meet me to morrow Morning about five, with your Sword in your Hand, behind _Southampton_ House.

_Bel_. ‘Tis well--there we will dispute our Title to _Celinda_. [_Exit Sir_ Tim. _Dull Animal! The Gods cou’d ne’er decree So bright a Maid shou’d be possest by thee_.

[Exeunt.