Chapter VI: Act IV: SCENE I. Celinda’s Chamber

_Discovers_ Celinda _as before sitting in a Chair_,
Diana _by her in another, who sings_.

SONG.

I.

Celinda, _who did Love disdain,
For whom had languished many a Swain,
Leading her bleating Flocks to drink,
She spy’d upon the River’s brink
A Youth, whose Eyes did well declare
How much he lov’d, but lov’d not her_.

II.

_At first she laugh’d, but gaz’d the while,
And soon it lessen’d to a Smile;
Thence to surprize and wonder came,
Her Breast to heave, her Heart to flame;
Then cry’d she out, Ah, now I prove
Thou art a God, Almighty Love_.

III.

_She wou’d have spoke, but Shame deny’d,
And bad her first consult her Pride;
But soon she found that Aid was gone,
For Love, alas, had left her none.
Oh, how she burns, but ‘tis too late,
For in his Eyes she reads her Fate_.

_Cel_. Oh, how numerous are her Charms --How shall I pay this generous Condescension? Fair lovely Maid--

_Dia_. Why do you flatter, Sir?

_Cel_. To say you’re lovely, by your self I do not, I’m young, and have not much convers’d with Beauty: Yet I’ll esteem my Judgment, since it knows Where my Devotions shou’d be justly paid. --But, Madam, may I not yet expect To hear the Story, you so lately promis’d me?

_Dia_. I owe much to your Goodness, Sir--but--

_Cel_. I am too young, you think, to hear a Secret; Can I want Sense to pity your Misfortunes, Or Passion to incite me to revenge ‘em?

_Dia_. Oh, would he were in earnest!

_Cel_. She’s fond of me, and I must blow that flame, Do any thing to make her hate my _Bellmour_. [_Aside_. --But, Madam, I’m impatient for your Story, That after that, you may expect my Service.

_Dia_. The Treatment you this night have given a distressed Maid, enough obliges me; nor need I tell you, I’m nobly born; something about my Dress, my Looks and Mien, will doubtless do me reason.

_Cel_. Sufficiently--

_Dia_. But in the Family where I was educated, a Youth of my own Age, a Kinsman too, I chanc’d to fall in love with, but with a Passion my Pride still got the better of; and he, I thought, repaid my young Desires. But Bashfulness on his part, did what Pride had done on mine, And kept his too conceal’d--At last my Uncle, who had the absolute Dominion of us both, thought good to marry us together.

_Cel_. Punish him, Heaven, for a Sin so great. --And are you married then?

_Dia_. Why is there Terror in that Word?

_Cel_. By all that’s Sacred, ‘tis a Word that kills me. Oh, say thou art not; And I thus low will fall, and pay thee Thanks. [_Kneels_.

_Dia_. You’ll wish indeed I were not, when you know How very, very wretched it has made me.

_Cel_. Shou’d you be telling me a Tale all day, Such as would melt a Heart that ne’er could love, ’.would not increase my Reason for the wish That I had dy’d e’er known you had been married.

_Dia_. So many soft Words from my _Bellmour’s_ mouth Had made me mad with Joy, and next to that I wish to hear ‘em from this Youth; If they be real, how I shall be reveng’d! [_Aside_. --But why at my being married should you sigh?

_Cel_. Because I love, is that a Wonder, Madam? Have you not Charms sufficient at first sight To wound a Heart tender and young as mine? Are you not heavenly fair? Oh, there’s my Grief-- Since you must be another’s.

_Dia_. Pray hear me out; and if you love me after, Perhaps you may not think your self unhappy. When Night was come, the long’d for Night, and all Retir’d to give us silent Room for Joy--

_Cel_. Oh, I can hear no more--by Heav’n, I cannot. --Here--stab me to the Heart--let out my Life, I cannot live, and hear what follow’d next.

_Dia_. Pray hear me, Sir--

_Cel_. Oh, you will tell me he was kind-- Yes, yes--oh God--were not his balmy Kisses Sweeter than Incense offer’d up to Heaven? Did not his Arms, softer and whiter far Than those of _Jove’s_ transform’d to Wings of Swans, Greedily clasp thee round?--Oh, quickly speak, Whilst thy fair rising Bosom met with his; And then--Oh--then--

_Dia_. Alas, Sir! What’s the matter?--sit down a while.

_Cel_. Now--I am well--pardon me, lovely Creature, If I betray a Passion, I’m too young To’ve learnt the Art of hiding; --I cannot hear you say that he was kind.

_Dia_. Kind! yes, as Blasts to Flow’rs, or early Fruit; All gay I met him full of youthful Heat: But like a Damp, he dasht my kindled Flame, And all his Reason was--he lov’d another, A Maid he call’d _Celinda_.

_Cel_. Oh blessed Man!

_Dia_. How, Sir?

_Cel_. To leave thee free, to leave thee yet a Virgin.

_Dia_. Yes, I have vow’d he never shall possess me.

_Cel_. Oh, how you bless me--but you still are married, And whilst you are so--I must languish--

_Dia_. Oh, how his Softness moves me! [_Aside_. --But can all this Disorder spring from Love?

_Cel_. Or may I still prove wretched.

_Dia_. And can you think there are no ways For me to gratify that Love? What ways am I constrain’d to use to work out my Revenge! [_Aside_.

_Cel_. How mean you, Madam?

_Dia_. Without a Miracle, look on my Eyes-- And Beauty--which you say can kindle Fires; --She that can give, may too retain Desires.

_Cel_. She’ll ravish me--let me not understand you.

_Dia_. Look on my Wrongs-- Wrongs that would melt a frozen Chastity, That a religious Vow had made to Heaven: --And next survey thy own Perfections.

_Cel_. Hah--

_Dia_. Art thou so young, thou canst not apprehend me? Fair bashful Boy, hast thou the Power to move, And yet not know the Bus’ness of thy Love?

_Cel_. How in an instant thou hast chill’d my Blood, And made me know no Woman can be good? ’.is Sin enough to yield--but thus to sue Heav’n--’tis my Business--and not meant for you.

_Dia_. How little Love is understood by thee, ’.is Custom, and not Passion you pursue; Because Enjoyment first was nam’d by me, It does destroy what shou’d your Flame renew: My easy yielding does your Fire abate, And mine as much your tedious Courtship hate. Tell Heaven--you will hereafter sacrifice, --And see how that will please the Deities. The ready Victim is the noblest way, Your Zeal and Obligations too to pay.

_Cel_. I think the Gods wou’d hardly be ador’d, If they their Blessings shou’d, unask’d, afford; And I that Beauty can no more admire, Who ere I sue, can yield to my Desire.

_Dia_. Dull Youth, farewel: For since ‘tis my Revenge that I pursue Less Beauty and more Man as well may do. [_Offers to go_.

_Enter_ Friendlove _disguised, as one from a Camp_.

_Cel_. Madam, you must not go with this Mistake.
[_Holds her_.

_Friend_. _Celinda_ has inform’d me true--’tis she-- Good morrow, Brother, what, so early at your Devotions?

_Cel_. O, my Brother’s come, and luckily relieves me. [_Aside_.

_Friend_. Your Orizons are made to a fair Saint. --Pray, Sir, what Lady’s that? --Or is it blasphemy to repeat her Name? --By my bright Arms, she’s fair--With what a charming Fierceness, she charges through my Body to my Heart. --Death! how her glittering Eyes give Fire, and wound! And have already pierc’d my very Soul! --May I approach her, Brother?

_Cel_. Yes, if you dare, there’s danger in it though, She has Charms that will bewitch you: --I dare not stand their Mischief. [_Exit_.

_Friend_. Lady, I am a Soldier--yet in my gentlest Terms I humbly beg to kiss your lovely Hands-- Death! there’s Magick in the Touch. By Heaven, you carry an Artillery in every part.

_Dia_. This is a Man indeed fit for my purpose. [_Aside_.

_Friend_. Nay, do not view me, I am no lovely Object; I am a Man bred up to Noise and War, And know not how to dress my Looks in Smiles; Yet trust me, fair one, I can love and serve As well as an _Endymion_, or _Adonis_. Wou’d you were willing to permit that Service!

_Dia_. Why, Sir?--What cou’d you do?

_Friend_. Why--I cou’d die for you.

_Dia_. I need the Service of the living, Sir. But do you love me, Sir?

_Friend_. Or let me perish, flying from a single Enemy. I am a Gentleman, and may pretend to love you; And what you can command, I can perform.

_Dia_. Take heed, Sir, what you say, for I’m in earnest.

_Friend_. Command me any thing that’s just and brave; And, by my Eyes, ‘tis done.

_Dia_. I know not what you call just or brave; But those whom I do the Honour to command, Must not capitulate.

_Friend_. Let him be blasted with the Name of Coward, That dares dispute your Orders.

_Dia_. Dare you fight for me?

_Friend_. With a whole Army; ‘tis my Trade to fight.

_Dia_. Nay, ‘tis but a single Man.

_Friend_. Name him.

_Dia_. _Bellmour_.

_Friend_. Of _Yorkshire_? Companion to young _Friendlove_, that came lately from _Italy_?

_Dia_. Yes, do you know him?

_Friend_. I do, who has oft spoke of _Bellmour_; We travel’d into _Italy_ together--But since, I hear, He fell in love with a fair cruel Maid, For whom he languishes.

_Dia_. Heard you her Name?

_Friend_. _Diana_, rich in Beauty, as in Fortune. --Wou’d she had less of both, and more of Pity; And that I knew not how to wish, till now That I became a Lover, perhaps as unsuccessful. [_Aside_.

_Dia_. I knew my Beauty had a thousand Darts, But knew not they cou’d strike so quick and home. [_Aside_. Let your good Wishes for your Friend alone, Lest he being happy, you shou’d be undone. For he and you cannot be blest at once.

_Friend_. How, Madam!

_Dia_. I am that Maid he loves, and who hates him.

_Friend_. Hate him!

_Dia_. To Death.

_Friend_. Oh, me unhappy! [_Aside_.

_Dia_. He sighs and turns away--am I again defeated? Surely I am not fair, or Man’s insensible.

_Friend_. She knows me not-- And ‘twas discreetly done to change my Shape: For Woman is a strange fantastick Creature; And where before, I cou’d not gain a Smile, Thus I may win her Heart. [_Aside_. --Say, Madam, can you love a Man that dies for you?

_Dia_. The way to gain me, is to fight with _Bellmour_. Tell him from me you come, the wrong’d _Diana_; Tell him you have an Interest in my Heart, Equal to that which I have made in yours.

_Friend_. I’ll do’t; I will not ask your Reason, but obey. Swear e’er I go, that when I have perform’d it, You’ll render me Possession of your Heart.

_Dia_. By all the Vows that Heaven ties Hearts together with, I’ll be entirely yours.

_Friend_. And I’ll not be that conscientious Fool, To stop at Blessings ‘cause they are not lawful; But take ‘em up, when Heaven has thrown ‘em down, Without the leave of a Religious Ceremony. [_Aside_. Madam, this House, which I am Master of, You shall command; whilst I go seek this _Bellmour_.

_Dia_. But e’er you go, I must inform you why I do pursue him with my just Revenge.

_Friend_. I will attend, and hear impatiently.

[_Exeunt_.

SCENE II. _A Baudy House_.

_Enter Mrs_. Driver _and_ Betty Flauntit.

_Flaunt_. _Driver_, prithee call for a Glass, that I may set my self in order, before I go up; for really my Knight has not been at home all this Night, and I am so confus’d--

_Enter one with a Glass, and two Wenches_, Jenny _and_ Doll.

Lord, Mrs. _Driver_, I wonder you shou’d send for me, when other Women are in Company; you know of all things in the World, I hate Whores, they are the pratingst leudest poor Creatures in Nature; and I wou’d not, for any thing, Sir _Timothy_ shou’d know that I keep Company, ‘twere enough to lose him.

Mrs. _Driv_. Truly, Mrs. _Flauntit_, this young Squire that you were Sent to for, has two or three Persons more with him that must be accommodated too.

_Flaunt_. _Driver_, though I do recreate my self a little sometimes, yet you know I value my Reputation and Honour.

_Jenny_. Mrs. _Driver_, why shou’d you send for us where _Flauntit_ is? a stinking proud Flirt, who because she has a tawdry Petticoat, I warrant you, will think her self so much above us, when if she were set out in her own natural Colours, and her original Garments, wou’d be much below us in Beauty.

Mrs. _Driv_. Look ye, Mrs. _Jenny_, I know you, and I know Mrs. _Flauntit_; but ‘tis not Beauty or Wit that takes now-a-days; the Age is altered since I took upon me this genteel Occupation: but ‘tis a fine Petticoat, right Points, and clean Garnitures, that does me Credit, and takes the Gallant, though on a stale Woman. And again, Mrs. _Jenny_, she’s kept, and Men love as much for Malice, as for Lechery, as they call it. Oh, ‘tis a great Mover to Joy, as they say, to have a Woman that’s kept.

_Jen_. Well! Be it so, we may arrive to that excellent Degree of Cracking, to be kept too one day.

Mrs. _Driv_. Well, well, get your selves in order to go up to the Gentlemen.

_Flaunt_. _Driver_, what art thou talking to those poor Creatures? Lord, how they stink of Paint and Pox, faugh--

Mrs. _Driv_. They were only complaining that you that were kept, shou’d intrude upon the Privileges of the Commoners.

_Flaunt_. Lord, they think there are such Joys in Keeping, when I vow, _Driver_, after a while, a Miss has as painful a Life as a Wife; our Men drink, stay out late, and whore, like any Husbands.

_Driv_. But I hope in the Lord, Mrs. _Flauntit_, yours is no such Man; I never saw him, but I have heard he’s under decent Correction.

_Flaunt_. Thou art mistaken, _Driver_, I can keep him within no moderate Bounds without Blows; but for his filthy Custom of Wenching, I have almost broke him of that--but prithee, _Driver_, who are these Gentlemen?

_Driv_. Truly, I know not; but they are young, and fine as Princes: two of ‘em were disguis’d in masking Habits last Night, but they have sent ’.m away this Morning, and they are free as Emperors--One of ‘em has lost a Thousand Pound at Play, and never repin’d at it; one’s a Knight, and I believe his Courage is cool’d, for he has ferreted my Maids over and over to Night--But ‘tis the fine, young, handsom Squire that I design you for.

_Flaunt_. No matter for his Handsomness, let me have him that has most Money.

[_Exeunt_.

SCENE III. _Another Chamber in the Brothel, a Table with Box and Dice_.

_Enter_ Bellmour, _Sir_ Timothy, Sham _and_ Sharp.

_Bel_. Damn it, give us more Wine. [_Drinks_. Where stands the Box and Dice?--Why, _Sham_.

_Sham_. Faith, Sir, Your Luck’s so bad, I han’t the Conscience to play longer--Sir _Timothy_ and you play off a hundred Guineas, and see if Luck will turn.

_Bel_. Do you take me for a Country Squire, whose Reputation will be crackt at the loss of a petty Thousand? You have my Note for it to my Goldsmith.

_Sham_. ‘Tis sufficient if it were for ten thousand.

_Bel_. Why, Sir _Timothy_--Pox on’t, thou’rt dull, we are not half debauch’d and leud enough, give us more Wine.

Sir _Tim_. Faith, _Frank_, I’m a little maukish with sitting up all Night, and want a small refreshment this Morning--Did we not send for Whores?

_Bel_. No, I am not in humour for a Wench-- By Heaven, I hate the Sex. All but divine _Celinda_, Appear strange Monsters to my Eyes and Thoughts.

Sir _Tim_. What, art Italianiz’d, and lovest thy own Sex?

_Bel_. I’m for any thing that’s out of the common Road of Sin; I love a Man that will be damn’d for something: to creep by slow degrees to Hell, as if he were afraid the World shou’d see which way he went, I scorn it, ‘tis like a Conventicler--No, give me a Man, who to be certain of’s Damnation, will break a solemn Vow to a contracted Maid.

Sir _Tim_. Ha, ha, ha, I thought thou would’st have said at least--had murder’d his Father, or ravish’d his Mother--Break a Vow, quoth ye--by Fortune, I have broke a thousand.

_Bel_. Well said, my Boy! A Man of Honour! And will be ready whene’er the Devil calls for thee--So--ho--more Wine, more Wine, and Dice.

_Enter a Servant with Dice and Wine_.

Come, Sir, let me--
[_Throws and loses_.

Sir _Tim_. What will you set me, Sir?

_Bel_. Cater-tray--a hundred Guineas--oh, damn the Dice--’tis mine--come, a full Glass--Damnation to my Uncle.

Sir _Tim_. By Fortune, I’ll do thee reason--give me the Glass, and, _Sham_, to thee--Confusion to the musty Lord.

_Bel_. So--now I’m like my self, profanely wicked. A little room for Life--but such a Life As Hell it self shall wonder at--I’ll have a care To do no one good deed in the whole course on’t, Lest that shou’d save my Soul in spite of Vow-breach. --I will not die--that Peace my Sins deserve not. I’ll live and let my Tyrant Uncle see The sad effects of Perjury, and forc’d Marriage. --Surely the Pow’rs above envy’d my Bliss; Marrying _Celinda_, I had been an Angel, So truly blest, and good. [_Weeps_.

Sir _Tim_. Why, how now, _Frank_--by Fortune, the Rogue is Maudlin--So, ho, ho, so ho.

_Bel_. The matter?

Sir _Tim_. Oh, art awake--What a Devil ail’st thou, _Frank_?

_Bel_. A Wench, or any thing--come, let’s drink a round.

_Sham_. They’re come as wisht for.

_Enter_ Flauntit, Driver, Doll _and_ Jenny _mask’d_.

_Bel_. Oh, damn ‘em! What shall I do? Yet it would look like Virtue to avoid ‘em. No, I must venture on--Ladies, y’are welcome.

Sir _Tim_. How, the Women?--Hold, hold, _Bellmour_, let me choose too-- Come, come, unmask, and shew your pretty Faces.

_Flaunt_. How, Sir _Timothy_! What Devil ow’d me a spite. [_Aside_.

Sir _Tim_. Come, unmask, I say: a willing Wench would have shew’d all in half this time.

_Flaunt_. Wou’d she so, Impudence!
[_Pulls off her Mask_.

Sir _Tim_. How, my _Betty_!

_Flaunt_. This is the Trade you drive, you eternal Fop, when I sit at home expecting you Night after Night.

Sir _Tim_. Nay, dear Betty!

_Flaunt_. ‘Tis here you spend that which shou’d buy me Points and Petticoats, whilst I go like no body’s Mistress; I’d as live be your Wife at this rate, so I had: and I’m in no small danger of getting the foul Disease by your Leudness.

Sir _Tim_. Victorious _Betty_, be merciful, and do not ruin my Reputation amongst my Friends.

_Flaunt_. Your Whores you mean, you Sot you.

Sir _Tim_. Nay, triumphant _Betty_, hear thy poor _Timmy_.

_Flaunt_. My poor _Ninny_, I’m us’d barbarously, and won’t endure it.

Sir _Tim_. I’ve won Money to Night, _Betty_, to buy thee Clothes--hum --hum--Well said, _Frank_, towse the little Jilts, they came for that purpose.

_Flaunt_. The Devil confound him, what a Prize have I lost by his being here--my Comfort is, he has not found me out though, but thinks I came to look for him, and accordingly I must dissemble.

_Bel_. What’s here? A Lady all in Tears!

Sir _Tim_. An old Acquaintance of mine, that takes it unkindly that I am for Change--_Betty_, say so too, you know I can settle nothing till I’m marry’d; and he can do it swingingly, if we can but draw him in.

_Flaunt_. This mollifies something, do this, and you’ll make your Peace; if not, you Rascal, your Ears shall pay for this Night’s Transgression.

Sir _Tim_. Come hither, _Frank_, is not this a fine Creature?

_Bel_. By Heaven, a very Devil!

Sir _Tim_. Come, come, approach her; for if you’ll have a Miss, this has all the good Qualities of one--go, go Court her, thou art so bashful--

_Bel_. I cannot frame my Tongue to so much Blasphemy, as ‘tis to say kind things to her--I’ll try my Heart though--Fair Lady--Damn her, she is not fair--nor sweet--nor good--nor--something I must say for a beginning. Come, Lady--dry your Eyes: This Man deserves not all the Tears you shed. --So--at last the Devil has got the better of me, And I am enter’d.

_Flaunt_. You see, Sir, how miserable we Women are that love you Men.

_Bel_. How, did you love him? Love him against his Will?

_Flaunt_. So it seems, Sir.

_Bel_. Oh, thou art wretched then indeed; no wonder if he hate thee-- Does he not curse thee? Curse thee till thou art damn’d, as I do lost _Diana_. [_Aside_.

_Flaunt_. Curse me! He were not best in my hearing; Let him do what he will behind my Back. What ails the Gentleman?

_Bel_. Gods! what an odious thing mere Coupling is! A thing which every sensual Animal Can do as well as we--but prithee tell me, Is there nought else between the nobler Creatures?

_Flaunt_. Not that I know of, Sir-- Lord, he’s very silly, or very innocent, I hope he has his Maidenhead; if so, and rich too. Oh, what a booty were this for me! [_Aside_.

_Bel_. ‘Tis wondrous strange; Why was not I created like the rest, Wild, and insensible, to fancy all?

_Flaunt_. Come, Sir, you must learn to be gay, to sing, to dance, and talk of any thing, and fancy any thing that’s in your way too.

_Bel_. Oh, I can towse, and ruffle, like any Leviathan, when I begin-- Come, prove my Vigor. [_Towses her_.

_Flaunt_. Oh, Lord, Sir! You tumble all my Garniture.

_Bel_. There’s Gold to buy thee more--

_Flaunt_. Oh, sweet Sir--wou’d my Knight were hang’d, so I were well rid of him now--Well, Sir, I swear you are the most agreeable Person--

_Bel_. Am I?--let us be more familiar then--I’ll kiss thy Hand, thy Breast, thy Lips--and--

_Flaunt_. All--you please, Sir--

_Bel_. A tractable Sinner! [_Offers to kiss her_. Faugh--how she smells--had I approach’d so near divine _Celinda_, what A natural Fragrancy had sent it self through all my ravisht Senses! [_Aside_.

_Flaunt_. The Man’s extasy’d, sure, I shall take him. Come, Sir, you’re sad.

_Bel_. As Angels fall’n from the Divine Abode, And now am lighted on a very Hell! --But this is not the way to thrive in Wickedness; I must rush on to Ruin--Come, fair Mistress, Will you not shew me some of your Arts of Love? For I am very apt to learn of Beauty--Gods-- What is’t I negotiate for?--a Woman! Making a Bargain to possess a Woman! Oh, never, never!

_Flaunt_. The Man is in love, that’s certain--as I was saying, Sir--

_Bel_. Be gone, Repentance! Thou needless Goodness, Which if I follow, canst lead me to no Joys. Come, tell me the Price of all your Pleasures.

Sir _Tim_. Look you, Mistress, I am but a Country Knight. Yet I shou’d be glad of your farther Acquaintance. --Pray, who may that Lady be--

_Driv_. Who, Mrs. Flauntit, Sir?

Sir _Tim_. Ay, she: she’s tearing fine, by Fortune.

_Driv_. I’ll assure you, Sir, she’s kept, and is a great Rarity, but to a Friend, or so--

Sir _Tim_. Hum--kept--pray, by whom?

_Driv_. Why, a silly Knight, Sir, that--

Sir _Tim_. Ay, ay, silly indeed--a Pox upon her--a silly Knight, you say--

_Driv_. Ay, Sir, one she makes a very Ass of.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, so methinks--but she’s kind, and will do reason for all him.

_Driv_. To a Friend, a Man of Quality--or so.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, she blinds the Knight.

_Driv_. Alas, Sir, easily--he, poor Cully, thinks her a very Saint--but when he’s out of the way, she comes to me to pleasure a Friend.

Sir _Tim_. But what if the Fool miss her?

_Driv_. She cries Whore first, brings him upon his Knees for her Fault; and a piece of Plate, or a new Petticoat, makes his Peace again.

Sir _Tim. Why--look you, Mistress, I am that Fop, that very silly Knight, and the rest that you speak of.

_Driv_. How, Sir? then I’m undone, she’s the Upholder of my Calling, the very Grace of my Function.

Sir _Tim_. Is she so? e’en keep her to your self then, I’ll have no more of her, by Fortune--I humbly thank you for your Intelligence, and the rest. Well--I see there’s not one honest Whore i’th’ Nation, by Fortune.

_Enter_ Charles Bellmour, _and_ Trusty.

Hark ye, Mistress, what was your Bus’ness here?

_Flaunt_. To meet a Rogue!--

Sir _Tim_. And I to meet a Whore, and now we are well met.

_Flaunt_. How, Sir?

Sir _Tim_. Nay, never be surpriz’d, for your Intrigues are discover’d, the good Matron of the House (against her Will) has done me that kindness--you know how to live without your Keeper, and so I’ll leave you.

_Flaunt_. You’re too serviceable a Fool to be lost so. [_Aside_.

_Bel_. Who knows this bold Intruder?

_Char_. How, Sir, am I a Stranger to you? But I shou’d wonder at it, since all your last Night’s Actions betray’d a strange depravity of Sense.--Sir, I have sought you long, and wish I had not found you yet, since both the Place and Company declare, how grossly you’ve dissembled Virtue all this while.

_Bel_. Take hence that prating Boy.

_Char_. How, Sir--You are my elder Brother, yet I may be allow’d to do the Business that I came for, and from my Uncle to demand your Wife.

_Bel_. You may return, and tell him that she’s dead.

_Char_. Dead! sure, Sir, you rave.
[_Turns him about_.

_Bel_. Indeed I do--but yet she’s dead, they say.

_Char_. How came she dead?

_Bel_. I kill’d her--ask no more, but leave me.
[_Turns him about again_.

_Char_. Sir, this is Madman’s Language, and not to be believed.

_Bel_. Go to--y’are a saucy Boy.

_Char_. Sir, I’m an angry Boy-- But yet can bear much from a Brother’s Mouth; Y’ave lost your sleep: pray, Sir, go home and seek it.

_Bel_. Home! I have no Home, unless thou mean’st my Grave, And thither I cou’d wish thou wou’d conduct me. [_Weeps_.

_Flaunt_. Pray Heaven this young virtuous Fellow don’t spoil all. --Sir, shall I send for a Scrivener to draw the Settlement you promis’d me?

_Bel_. Do so, and I’ll order him to get it ready.

_Char_. A Settlement! On whom? This Woman, Sir?

_Bel_. Yes, on this Woman, Sir.

_Char_. Are you stark mad?--Know you where you are?

_Bel_. Yes, in a Baudy-house.

_Char_. And this Woman, Sir.--

_Bel_. A very Whore--a tawdry mercenary Whore! And what of this?

_Char_. And can you love her, Sir?

_Bel_. No, if I did, I wou’d not gratify her.

_Char_. What, is’t in Charity to keep her honest?

_Bel_. Neither.

_Char_. Is your Lust grown so high--

_Bel_. Take that-- [_Strikes him_. For naming but so base a thing to me.

_Char_. I wear a Sword, but not to draw on Mad-men. But since y’are so free, Sir, I demand that Fortune, which by my Father’s Will y’are bound to pay the day after your Wedding-Day; my Sister’s too is due.

_Bel_. Ha, ha, ha,--Sir _Timothy_, come hither--who dost think this is?

Sir _Tim_. A Fidler, perhaps--let him play in the next Room.

_Bel_. No, my Brother--come to demand his Portion of me; he says I am in leud Company, and, like a Boy, he wou’d correct me.

Sir _Tim_. Why, this comes of Idleness; thou should’st have bound him Prentice in time, the Boy would have made a good saucy Taylor.

_Char_. Sirrah, y’are a Rascal, whom I must thus chastise.
[_Kicks him_.

[_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_.