Enter Sir Timothy, Sham and Sharp, with Fidlers and Boy.

Sir Tim.  I believe this is the Bed-chamber Window where the Bride and Bridegroom lies.

Sham.  Well, and what do you intend to do, if it be, Sir?

Sir Tim.  Why, first sing a Baudy Song, and then break the Windows, in revenge for the Affront was put upon me to night.

Sharp.  Faith, Sir, that’s but a poor Revenge, and which every Footman may take of his Lady, who has turn’d him away for filching—­You know, Sir, Windows are frail, and will yield to the lusty Brickbats; ’tis an Act below a Gentleman.

Sir Tim.  That’s all one, ’tis my Recreation; I serv’d a Woman so the other night, to whom my Mistress had a Pique.

Sham.  Ay, Sir, ’tis a Revenge fit only for a Whore to take—­And the Affront you receiv’d to Night, was by mistake.

Sir Tim.  Mistake! how can that be?

Sham.  Why, Sir, did you not mind, that he that drew upon Bellmour, was in the same Dress with you.

Sir Tim.  How shou’d his be like mine?

Sham.  Why, by the same Chance, that yours was like his—­I suppose sending to the Play-house for them, as we did, they happened to send him such another Habit, for they have many such for dancing Shepherds.

Sir Tim.  Well, I grant it a Mistake, and that shall reprieve the Windows.

Sharp.  Then, Sir, you shew’d so much Courage, that you may bless the Minute that forc’d you to fight.

Sir Tim.  Ay, but between you and I, ’twas well he kick’d me first, and made me angry, or I had been lustily swing’d, by Fortune—­But thanks to my Spleen, that sav’d my Bones that bout—­But then I did well—­hah, came briskly off, and the rest.

Sham.  With Honour, Sir, I protest.

Sir Tim.  Come then, we’ll serenade him.  Come, Sirrah, tune your Pipes, and sing.

Boy.  What shall I sing, Sir?

Sir Tim.  Any thing sutable to the Time and Place.

  SONG.

  I.

  The happy Minute’s come, the Nymph is laid,
    Who means no more to rise a Maid. 
  Blushing, and panting, she expects th’Approach
    Of Joys that kill with every touch: 
  Nor can her native Modesty and Shame
  Conceal the Ardour of her Virgin Flame.

  II.

  And now the amorous Youth is all undrest,
    Just ready for Love’s mighty Feast;
  With vigorous haste the Veil aside he throws,
    That doth all Heaven at once disclose. 
  Swift as Desire, into her naked Arms
  Himself he throws, and rifles all her Charms.

Good morrow, Mr. Bellmour, and to your lovely Bride, long may you live and love.

    Enter Bellmour above.

Bel.  Who is’t has sent that Curse?