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!—