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?

_Nur_. Faith, Mistress, I took pity of thee, I saw you so elevated with
Thoughts of Mr. _Bellmour_, I found it necessary to take you down a
degree lower.

_Cel_. Why did not Heaven make all Men like lo _Bellmour_?
So strangely sweet and charming!

_Nur_. Marry come up, you speak well for your self;
Oh intolerable loving Creature!
But here comes the utmost of your Wishes.