The Works of Aphra Behn, Volume 3 | Page 7

Tim. Wilt thou have done? By Fortune, I'll endure no more--
Nur. Murder, Murder!
Cel. Hold, hold.
Enter Friendlove, Bellmour, Sham and Sharp.
Friend. Read here the worst of News that can arrive, [Gives Bellm. a Letter. --What's the matter here? Why, how now, Sir Timothy, what, up in Arms with the Women?
Sir Tim. Oh, Ned, I'm glad thou'rt come--never was Tom Dove baited as I have been.
Friend. By whom? my Sister?
Sir Tim. No, no, that old Mastiff there--the young Whelp came not on, thanks be prais'd.
Bel. How, her Father here to morrow, and here he says, that shall be the last Moment, he will defer the Marriage of Celinda to this Sot-- Oh God, I shall grow mad, and so undo 'em all--I'll kill the Villain at the Altar--By my lost hopes, I will--And yet there is some left--Could I but--speak to her--I must rely on Dresswell's Friendship--Oh God, to morrow--Can I endure that thought? Can I endure to see the Traytor there, who must to morrow rob me of my Heaven?--I'll own my Flame--and boldly tell this Fop, she must be mine--
Friend. I assure you, Sir Timothy, I am sorry, and will chastise her.
Sir Tim. Ay, Sir, I that am a Knight--a Man of Parts and Wit, and one that is to be your Brother, and design'd to be the Glory of marrying Celinda.
Bel. I can endure no more--How, Sir--You marry fair Celinda!
Sir Tim. Ay, Frank, ay--is she not a pretty little plump white Rogue, hah?
Bel. Yes.
Sir Tim. Oh, I had forgot thou art a modest Rogue, and to thy eternal Shame, hadst never the Reputation of a Mistress--Lord, Lord, that I could see thee address thy self to a Lady--I fancy thee a very ridiculous Figure in that Posture, by Fortune.
Bel. Why, Sir, I can court a Lady--
Sir Tim. No, no, thou'rt modest; that is to say, a Country Gentleman; that is to say, ill-bred; that is to say, a Fool, by Fortune, as the World goes.
Bel. Neither, Sir--I can love--and tell it too--and that you may believe me--look on this Lady, Sir.
Sir Tim. Look on this Lady, Sir--Ha, ha, ha,--Well, Sir--Well, Sir-- And what then?
Bel. Nay, view her well, Sir--
Sir. Tim. Pleasant this--Well, Frank, I do--And what then?
Bel. Is she not charming fair--fair to a wonder!
Sir Tim. Well, Sir, 'tis granted--
Bel. And canst thou think this Beauty meant for thee, for thee, dull common Man?
Sir Tim. Very well, what will he say next?
Bel. I say, let me no more see thee approach this Lady.
Sir Tim. How, Sir, how?
Bel. Not speak to her, not look on her--by Heaven--not think of her.
Sir Tim. How, Frank, art in earnest?
Bel. Try, if thou dar'st.
Sir Tim. Not think of her!--
Bel. No, not so much as in a Dream, could I divine it.
Sir Tim. Is he in earnest, Mr. Friendlove?
Friend. I doubt so, Sir Timothy.
Sir Tim. What, does he then pretend to your Sister?
Bel. Yes, and no Man else shall dare do so.
Sir Tim. Take notice I am affronted in your Lodgings--for you, Bellmour--You take me for an Ass--therefore meet me to morrow Morning about five, with your Sword in your Hand, behind Southampton House.
Bel. 'Tis well--there we will dispute our Title to Celinda. [Exit Sir Tim. Dull Animal! The Gods cou'd ne'er decree So bright a Maid shou'd be possest by thee.
[Exeunt.

ACT II.
SCENE I. A Palace.
Enter Nurse with a Light.
Nur. Well, 'tis an endless trouble to have the Tuition of a Maid in love, here is such Wishing and Longing.--And yet one must force them to what they most desire, before they will admit of it--Here am I sent out a Scout of the Forlorn Hope, to discover the Approach of the Enemy--Well --Mr. Bellmour, you are not to know, 'tis with the Consent of Celinda, that you come--I must bear all the blame, what Mischief soever comes of these Night-Works.
Enter Bellmour.
Oh, are you come--Your Hour was Twelve, and now 'tis almost Two.
Bel. I could not get from Friendlove--Thou hast not told Celinda of my coming?
Nur. No, no, e'en make Peace for me, and your self too.
Bel. I warrant thee, Nurse--Oh, how I hope and fear this Night's Success!
[Exeunt.

SCENE II. A Chamber.
Celinda in her Night-Attire, leaning on a Table. Enter to her Bellmour and Nurse.
Cel. Oh Heavens! Mr. Bellmour at this late Hour in my Chamber!
Bel. Yes, Madam; but will approach no nearer till you permit me; And sure you know my Soul too well to fear.
Cel. I do, Sir, and you may approach yet nearer, And let me know your Business.
Bel. Love is my bus'ness, that of all the World; Only my Flame as much surmounts the rest, As is the Object's Beauty I adore.
Cel. If this be all, to tell me of your Love, To morrow might have done as well.
Bel. Oh, no, to morrow would have been too late, Too late to