Nur. Quite undone! Now God forbid it; what, for loving? You said but now there was no Life without it.
Cel. But since my Brother came from Italy,
And brought young Bellmour to our House,
How very little thou hadst said of him!
How much above thy Praise, I found the Youth!
Nur. Very pretty! You are grown a notable Proficient in Love—And you are resolv’d (if he please) to marry him?
Cel. Or I must die.
Nur. Ay, but you know the Lord Plotwell has the Possession of all his Estate, and if he marry without his liking, has Power to take away all his Fortune, and then I think it were not so good marrying him.
Cel. Not marrying him! Oh, canst thou think so poorly of me?
Yes, I would marry him, though our scanty Fortune
Cou’d only purchase us
A lonely Cottage, in some silent Place,
All cover’d o’er with Thatch,
Defended from the Outrages of Storms
By leafless Trees, in Winter; and from Heat,
With Shades, which their kind Boughs wou’d bear anew;
Under whose Covert we’d feed our gentle Flock,
That shou’d in gratitude repay us Food,
And mean and humble Clothing.
Nur. Very fine!
Cel. There we wou’d practise such degrees of Love,
Such lasting, innocent, unheard of Joys,
As all the busy World should wonder at,
And, amidst all their Glories, find none such.
Nur. Good lack! how prettily Love teaches his Scholars to prattle.— But hear ye, fair Mrs. Celinda, you have forgot to what end and purpose you came to Town; not to marry Mr. Bellmour, as I take it—but Sir Timothy Tawdrey, that Spark of Men.
Cel. Oh, name him not—Let me not in one Moment Descend from Heaven to Hell— How came that wretched thing into thy Noddle?