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.