st 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