The Works of Aphra Behn, Volume 3 | Page 5

mean and humble Clothing.
Nur. Very fine!
Cel. There we wou'd practise such degrees of Love, Such lasting, innocent, unheard of Joys, As all the busy World should wonder at, And, amidst all their Glories, find none such.
Nur. Good lack! how prettily Love teaches his Scholars to prattle.-- But hear ye, fair Mrs. Celinda, you have forgot to what end and purpose you came to Town; not to marry Mr. Bellmour, as I take it--but Sir Timothy Tawdrey, that Spark of Men.
Cel. Oh, name him not--Let me not in one Moment Descend from Heaven to Hell-- How came that wretched thing into thy Noddle?
Nur. Faith, Mistress, I took pity of thee, I saw you so elevated with Thoughts of Mr. Bellmour, I found it necessary to take you down a degree lower.
Cel. Why did not Heaven make all Men like lo Bellmour? So strangely sweet and charming!
Nur. Marry come up, you speak well for your self; Oh intolerable loving Creature! But here comes the utmost of your Wishes.
Cel. My Brother, and Bellmour! with strange Men!
Enter Friendlove, Bellmour, Sir Timothy, Sham, and Sharp.
Friend. Sister, I've brought you here a Lover, this is the worthy Person you have heard of, Sir Timothy Tawdrey.
Sir Tim. Yes, faith, Madam, I am Sir Timothy Tawdrey, at your Service--Pray are not you Mrs. Celinda Dresswell?
Cel. The same, but cannot return your Compliment.
Sir Tim. Oh Lord, oh Lord, not return a Compliment. Faith, Ned, thy Sister's quite spoil'd, for want of Town-Education; 'tis pity, for she's devilish pretty.
Friend. She's modest, Sir, before Company; therefore these Gentlemen and I will withdraw into the next Room.
Cel. Inhuman Brother! Will you leave me alone with this Sot?
Friend. Yes, and if you would be rid of the trouble of him, be not coy, nor witty; two things he hates.
Bel. 'Sdeath! Must she be blown upon by that Fool?
Friend. Patience, dear Frank, a little while.
[Exeunt Friend. Bell. Sham and Sharp.
[Sir Timothy walks about the Room, expecting when Celinda should speak.
Cel. Oh, dear Nurse, what shall I do?
Nur. I that ever help you at a dead Lift, will not fail you now.
Sir Tim. What a Pox, not a Word?
Cel. Sure this Fellow believes I'll begin.
Sir Tim. Not yet--sure she has spoke her last--
Nur. The Gentleman's good-natur'd, and has took pity on you, and will not trouble you, I think.
Sir Tim.--Hey day, here's Wooing indeed--Will she never begin, trow? --This some would call an excellent Quality in her Sex--But a pox on't, I do not like it--Well, I see I must break Silence at last--Madam--not answer me--'shaw, this is mere ill breeding--by Fortune--it can be nothing else--O' my Conscience, if I should kiss her, she would bid me stand off--I'll try--
Nur. Hold, Sir, you mistake your Mark.
Sir Tim. So I should, if I were to look in thy mouldy Chaps, good Matron--Can your Lady speak?
Nur. Try, Sir.
Sir Tim. Which way?
Nur. Why, speak to her first.
Sir Tim. I never knew a Woman want a Cue for that; but all that I Have met with were still before-hand with me in tittle tattle.
Nur. Likely those you have met with may, but this is no such Creature, Sir.
Sir Tim. I must confess, I am unus'd to this kind of Dialogue; and I am an Ass, if I know what to say to such a Creature. --But come, will you answer me to one Question?
Cel. If I can, Sir.
Sir Tim. But first I should ask you if you can speak? For that's a Question too.
Cel. And if I cannot, how will you be answer'd?
Sir Tim. Faith, that's right; why, then you must do't by signs.
Cel. But grant I can speak, what is't you'll ask me?
Sir Tim. Can you love?
Cel. Oh, yes, Sir, many things; I love my Meat, I love abundance of Adorers, I love choice of new Clothes, new Plays; and, like a right Woman, I love to have my Will.
Sir Tim. Spoke like a well-bred Person, by Fortune: I see there's hopes of thee, Celinda; thou wilt in time learn to make a very fashionable Wife, having so much Beauty too. I see Attracts, and Allurements, wanton Eyes, the languishing turn of the Head, and all That invites to Temptation.
Cel. Would that please you in a Wife?
Sir Tim. Please me! Why, Madam, what do you take me to be? a Sot?-- a Fool?--or a dull Italian of the Humour of your Brother?--No, no, I can assure you, she that marries me, shall have Franchise--But, my pretty Miss, you must learn to talk a little more--
Cel. I have not Wit, and Sense enough, for that.
Sir Tim. Wit! Oh la, O la, Wit! as if there were any Wit requir'd in a Woman when she talks; no, no matter for Wit, or Sense: talk but loud, and a great deal to shew your white Teeth, and smile, and be very