By the Habit he sent for to the Play-House.
                                  [Points to Sir Tim. 
And hither he’s come in Masquerade,
I know with some Design against my Bellmour,
Whom though he kill me, I must still preserve: 
Whilst I, lost in despair, thus as a Boy
Will seek a Death from any welcome Hand,
Since I want Courage to perform the Sacrifice.

Enter one and dances an Entry, and a Jig at the end on’t.

Lord.  Enough, enough at this time, let’s see the Bride to bed, the Bridegroom thinks it long.

Friend.  Hell!  Can I endure to hear all this with Patience? 
Shall he depart with Life to enjoy my Right,
And to deprive my Sister of her due? 
—­Stay, stay, and resign
That Virgin.

Bel.  Who art thou that dar’st lay a Claim to ought that’s here?

Friend.  This Sword shall answer ye.
          
                               [Draws.

Bel.  Though I could spare my Life, I’ll not be robb’d of it.
          
                                               [Draws.

Dia.  Oh, my dear Bellmour!

[All draw on Bellmour’s side_—­Diana holds Bellmour, Celinda runs between their Swords, and defends Bellmour; Sir Tim.  Sham, and Sharp draw, and run into several Corners, with signs of Fear.

Friend.  Who art thou, that thus fondly guard’st his Heart?
          
                                          [To Celinda. 
—­Be gone, and let me meet it.

Cel.  That thou mayst do through mine, but no way else.

Friend.  Here are too many to encounter, and I’ll defer my Vengeance.

Char.  Stay, Sir, we must not part so.

[Ex.  Drawing at the same Door, that Sir Tim. is sneaking out at.

Come back I say. [Pulls in Sir Tim. 
Slave!  Dost thou tremble?—­

Sir Tim.  Sir, I’m not the Man you look for—­
By Fortune, Sham, we’re all undone: 
He has mistook me for the fighting Fellow.

Char.  Villain, defend thy Life.

Sir Tim.  Who, I, Sir?  I have no quarrel to you, nor no man breathing, not I, by Fortune.

Cel.  This Coward cannot be my Brother. [Aside.

Char.  What made thee draw upon my Brother?

Sir Tim.  Who, I, Sir? by Fortune, I love him—­I draw upon him!

Char.  I do not wonder thou canst lye, for thou’rt a Coward!  Didst not thou draw upon him?  Is not thy Sword yet out?  Did I not see thee fierce, and active too, as if thou hadst dar’d?

Sir Tim.  Why, he’s gone, Sir; a Pox of all Mistakes and Masqueradings
I say—­this was your Plot, Sham.

Char.  Coward!  Shew then thy Face.