Sir Tim.  Nay, nay, no threatning, Sharp; it may be she’s innocent yet—­Give her t’other Bribe, and try what that will do.
                                            [Gives him Money.

Sham.  No, Sir, I’ll have no more to do with frail Woman, in this Case; I have a surer way to do your Business.

Enter Page with a Letter.

Sir Tim.  Is not that Bellmour’s Page?

Sharp.  It is, Sir.

Sir Tim.  By Fortune, the Rogue’s looking for me; he has a Challenge in his hand too.

Sham.  No matter, Sir, huff it out.

Sir Tim.  Prithee do thee huff him, thou know’st the way on’t.

Sham.  What’s your Bus’ness with Sir Timothy, Sir?

Page.  Mine, Sir, I don’t know the Gentleman; pray which is he?

Sir Tim.  I, I, ’tis so—­Pox on him.

Sharp.  Well, Boy, I am he—­What—­Your Master.

Page.  My Master, Sir—­

Sharp.  Are not you Bellmour’s Page?

Page.  Yes, Sir.

Sharp.  Well, your News.

Page.  News, Sir?  I know of none, but of my Master’s being this Morning—­

Sir Tim.  Ay, there it is—­behind Southampton House.

Page.  Married this Morning.

Sir Tim.  How!  Married!  ’Slife, has he serv’d me so?

Sham.  The Boy is drunk—­Bellmour married!

Page.  Yes, indeed, to the Lady Diana.

Sir Tim. Diana! Mad, by Fortune; what Diana?

Page.  Niece to the Lord Plotwell.

Sir Tim.  Come hither, Boy—­Art thou sure of this?

Page.  Sir, I am sure of it; and I am going to bespeak Musick for the Ball anon.

Sir Tim.  What hast thou there—­a Letter to the Divine Celinda? 
A dainty Boy—­there’s Money for to buy thee Nickers.

Page.  I humbly thank you.
                               [Exit.

Sharp.  Well, Sir, if this be true, Celinda will be glad of you again.

Sir. Tim.  Ay, but I will have none of her—­For, look you, Sham, there is but two sorts of Love in this World—­Now I am sure the Rogue did love her; and since it was not to marry her, it was for the thing you wot on, as appears by his writing to her now—­But yet, I will not believe what this Boy said, till I see it.

Sham.  Faith, Sir, I have thought of a thing, that may both clear your doubt, and give us a little Mirth.

Sir Tim.  I conceive thee.

Sham.  I know y’are quick of Apprehension, Sir Timothy.

Sir Tim.  O, your Servant, dear Sham—­But to let thee see, I am none of the dullest, we are to Jig it in Masquerade this Evening, hah.