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 _T