The Works of Aphra Behn, Volume 3 | Page 7

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 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