Sir _Tim_. Why, thou damnable confounded Torment, wilt thou never cease?

_Nur_. No, not till you raise your Siege, and be gone; go march to your
Lady of Love, and Debauch--go--You get no _Celinda_ here.

Sir _Tim_. The Devil's in her Tongue.

_Cel_. Good gentle Nurse, have Mercy upon the poor Knight.

_Nur_. No more, Mistress, than he'll have on you, if Heaven had so
abandon'd you, to put you into his Power--Mercy--quoth ye--no--, no
more than his Mistress will have, when all his Money's gone.

Sir _Tim_. Will she never end?

_Cel_. Prithee forbear.

_Nur_. No more than the Usurer would, to whom he has mortgag'd the best
part of his Estate, would forbear a Day after the promis'd Payment of
the Money. Forbear!--

Sir _Tim_. Not yet end! Can I, Madam, give you a greater Proof of my
Passion for you, than to endure this for your sake?

_Nur_. This--thou art so sorry a Creature, thou wilt endure any thing
for the lucre of her Fortune; 'tis that thou hast a Passion for: not
that thou carest for Money, but to sacrifice to thy Leudness, to
purchase a Mistress, to purchase the Reputation of as errant a Fool as
ever arriv'd at the Honour of keeping; to purchase a little Grandeur,