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.