Sir Tim.  Not think of her!—­

Bel.  No, not so much as in a Dream, could I divine it.

Sir Tim.  Is he in earnest, Mr. Friendlove?

Friend.  I doubt so, Sir Timothy.

Sir Tim.  What, does he then pretend to your Sister?

Bel.  Yes, and no Man else shall dare do so.

Sir Tim.  Take notice I am affronted in your Lodgings—­for you, Bellmour—­You take me for an Ass—­therefore meet me to morrow Morning about five, with your Sword in your Hand, behind Southampton House.

Bel.  ’Tis well—­there we will dispute our Title to Celinda.
                                                   [Exit Sir Tim.
Dull Animal!  The Gods cou’d ne’er decree So bright a Maid shou’d be possest by thee.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I. A Palace.

    Enter Nurse with a Light.

Nur.  Well, ’tis an endless trouble to have the Tuition of a Maid in love, here is such Wishing and Longing.—­And yet one must force them to what they most desire, before they will admit of it—­Here am I sent out a Scout of the Forlorn Hope, to discover the Approach of the Enemy—­Well —­Mr. Bellmour, you are not to know, ’tis with the Consent of Celinda, that you come—­I must bear all the blame, what Mischief soever comes of these Night-Works.

    Enter Bellmour.

Oh, are you come—­Your Hour was Twelve, and now ’tis almost Two.

Bel.  I could not get from Friendlove—­Thou hast not told Celinda of my coming?

Nur.  No, no, e’en make Peace for me, and your self too.

Bel.  I warrant thee, Nurse—­Oh, how I hope and fear this Night’s Success!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II. A Chamber.

Celinda in her Night-Attire, leaning on a Table. 
Enter to her Bellmour and Nurse.

Cel.  Oh Heavens!  Mr. Bellmour at this late Hour in my Chamber!

Bel.  Yes, Madam; but will approach no nearer till you permit me; And sure you know my Soul too well to fear.

Cel.  I do, Sir, and you may approach yet nearer, And let me know your Business.

Bel.  Love is my bus’ness, that of all the World; Only my Flame as much surmounts the rest, As is the Object’s Beauty I adore.

Cel.  If this be all, to tell me of your Love, To morrow might have done as well.

Bel.  Oh, no, to morrow would have been too late,
Too late to make returns to all my Pain. 
—­What disagreeing thing offends your Eyes? 
I’ve no Deformity about my Person;
I’m young, and have a Fortune great as any
That do pretend to serve you;
And yet I find my Interest in your Heart,
Below those happy ones that are my Rivals. 
Nay, every Fool that can but plead his Title,
And the poor Interest that a Parent gives him,
Can merit more than I. 
—­What else, my lovely Maid, can give a freedom
To that same talking, idle, knighted Fop?