The Works of Aphra Behn, Volume 3 | Page 6

confident, and 'tis enough--Lord, what a Sight 'tis to see a pretty Woman Stand right up an end in the middle of a Room, playing with her Fan, for want of something to keep her in Countenance. No, she that is mine, I will teach to entertain at another rate.
Nur. How, Sir? Why, what do you take my young Mistress to be?
Sir Tim. A Woman--and a fine one, and so fine as she ought to permit her self to be seen, and be ador'd.
Nur. Out upon you, would you expose your Wife? by my troth, and I were she, I know what I wou'd do--
Sir Tim. Thou do--what thou wouldst have done sixty Years ago, thou meanest.
Nur. Marry come up, for a stinking Knight; worse than I have gone down with you, e'er now--Sixty Years ago, quoth ye--As old as I am-- I live without Surgeons, wear my own Hair, am not in Debt to my Taylor, as thou art, and art fain to kiss his Wife, to persuade her Husband to be merciful to thee--who wakes thee every Morning with his Clamour and long Bills, at thy Chamber-door.
Sir Tim. Prithee, good Matron, Peace; I'll compound with thee.
Nur. 'Tis more than thou wilt do with thy Creditors, who, poor Souls, despair of a Groat in the Pound for all thou ow'st them, for Points, Lace, and Garniture--for all, in fine, that makes thee a complete Fop.
Sir Tim. Hold, hold thy eternal Clack.
Nur. And when none would trust thee farther, give Judgments for twice the Money thou borrowest, and swear thy self at Age; and lastly--to patch up your broken Fortune, you wou'd fain marry my sweet Mistress Celinda here--But, Faith, Sir, you're mistaken, her Fortune shall not go to the Maintenance of your Misses; which being once sure of, she, poor Soul, is sent down to the Country-house, to learn Housewifery, and live without Mankind, unless she can serve her self with the handsom Steward, or so--whilst you tear it away in Town, and live like Man and Wife with your Jilt, and are every Day seen in the Glass Coach, whilst your own natural Lady is hardly worth the Hire of a Hack.
Sir Tim. Why, thou damnable confounded Torment, wilt thou never cease?
Nur. No, not till you raise your Siege, and be gone; go march to your Lady of Love, and Debauch--go--You get no Celinda here.
Sir Tim. The Devil's in her Tongue.
Cel. Good gentle Nurse, have Mercy upon the poor Knight.
Nur. No more, Mistress, than he'll have on you, if Heaven had so abandon'd you, to put you into his Power--Mercy--quoth ye--no--, no more than his Mistress will have, when all his Money's gone.
Sir Tim. Will she never end?
Cel. Prithee forbear.
Nur. No more than the Usurer would, to whom he has mortgag'd the best part of his Estate, would forbear a Day after the promis'd Payment of the Money. Forbear!--
Sir Tim. Not yet end! Can I, Madam, give you a greater Proof of my Passion for you, than to endure this for your sake?
Nur. This--thou art so sorry a Creature, thou wilt endure any thing for the lucre of her Fortune; 'tis that thou hast a Passion for: not that thou carest for Money, but to sacrifice to thy Leudness, to purchase a Mistress, to purchase the Reputation of as errant a Fool as ever arriv'd at the Honour of keeping; to purchase a little Grandeur, as you call it; that is, to make every one look at thee, and consider what a Fool thou art, who else might pass unregarded amongst the common Croud.
Sir Tim. The Devil's in her Tongue, and so 'tis in most Women's of her Age; for when it has quitted the Tail, it repairs to her upper Tire.
Nur. Do not persuade me, Madam, I am resolv'd to make him weary of his Wooing.
Sir Tim. So, God be prais'd, the Storm is laid--And now, Mrs. Celinda, give me leave to ask you, if it be with your leave, this Affront is put on a Man of my Quality?
Nur. Thy Quality--
Sir Tim. Yes; I am a Gentleman, and a Knight.
Nur. Yes, Sir, Knight of the ill-favour'd Countenance is it?
Sir Tim. You are beholding to Don Quixot for that, and 'tis so many Ages since thou couldst see to read, I wonder thou hast not forgot all that ever belong'd to Books.
Nur. My Eye-sight is good enough to see thee in all thy Colours, thou Knight of the burning Pestle thou.
Sir Tim. Agen, that was out of a Play--Hark ye, Witch of Endor, hold your prating Tongue, or I shall most well-favour'dly cudgel ye.
Nur. As your Friend the Hostess has it in a Play too, I take it, Ends which you pick up behind the Scenes, when you go to be laught at even by the Player-Women.
Sir