_Nur_. As your Friend the Hostess has it in a Play too, I take it, Ends
which you pick up behind the Scenes, when you go to be laught at even by
the Player-Women.

Sir _Tim_. Wilt thou have done? By Fortune, I'll endure no more--

_Nur_. Murder, Murder!

Cel. Hold, hold.

_Enter_ Friendlove, Bellmour, Sham _and_ Sharp.

_Friend_. Read here the worst of News that can arrive,
[_Gives_ Bellm. _a Letter_.
--What's the matter here? Why, how now,
Sir _Timothy_, what, up in Arms with the Women?

Sir _Tim_. Oh, Ned, I'm glad thou'rt come--never was _Tom Dove_ baited
as I have been.

_Friend_. By whom? my Sister?

Sir _Tim_. No, no, that old Mastiff there--the young Whelp came not on,
thanks be prais'd.

_Bel_. How, her Father here to morrow, and here he says, that shall be
the last Moment, he will defer the Marriage of _Celinda_ to this Sot--
Oh God, I shall grow mad, and so undo 'em all--I'll kill the Villain at
the Altar--By my lost hopes, I will--And yet there is some left--Could I
but--speak to her--I must rely on _Dresswell's_ Friendship--Oh God, to