Phil. For the first you may thank your Youth, for the next your Father, and the last your Money.
Sir Tim. By Fortune, I love thee for thy Pertness.
Phil. Is it possible you can love at all?
Sir Tim. As much as I dare.
Phil. How do you mean?
Sir Tim. Not to be laught at; ‘tis not the Mode to love much; A Platonick Fop I have heard of, but this is an Age of sheer Enjoyment, and little Love goes to that; we have found it incommode, and loss of time, to make long Addresses.
Enter Celinda like a Boy.
Phil. I find, Sir, you and I shall never agree upon this matter; But see, Sir, here’s more Company.
Cel. Oh Heaven! ‘tis true, these Eyes confirm my Fate.
Yonder he is—and that fair splendid Thing,
That gazes on him with such kind Desire,
Is my blest Rival—Oh, he is married!
—Gods! And yet you let him live;
Live too with all his Charms, as fine and gay,
As if you meant he shou’d undo all easy Maids,
And kill ‘em for their Sin of loving him.
Wretched Celinda!
But I must turn my Eyes from looking on
The fatal Triumphs of my Death—Which of all these
Is my Brother? Oh, that is he: I know him
By the Habit he sent for to the Play-House.
[Points to Sir Tim.
And hither he’s come in Masquerade,
I know with some Design against my Bellmour,
Whom though he kill me, I must still preserve:
Whilst I, lost in despair, thus as a Boy
Will seek a Death from any welcome Hand,
Since I want Courage to perform the Sacrifice.
Enter one and dances an Entry, and a Jig at the end on’t.