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