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.