The happy Minute’s come, the Nymph is laid,
Who means no more to rise a Maid.
Blushing, and panting, she expects th’.pproach
Of Joys that kill with every touch:
Nor can her native Modesty and Shame
Conceal the Ardour of her Virgin Flame.
II.
And now the amorous Youth is all undrest,
Just ready for Love’s mighty Feast;
With vigorous haste the Veil aside he throws,
That doth all Heaven at once disclose.
Swift as Desire, into her naked Arms
Himself he throws, and rifles all her Charms.
Good morrow, Mr. Bellmour, and to your lovely Bride, long may you live and love.
Enter Bellmour above.
Bel. Who is’t has sent that Curse?
Sir Tim. What a Pox, is that Bellmour? The Rogue’s in choler, the
Bride has not pleas’d him.
Bel. Dogs! Do you upbraid me? I’ll be with you presently.
Sir Tim. Will you so?—but I’ll not stay your coming.
Cel. But you shall, Sir.