morrow--Can I endure that thought? Can I endure to see the Traytor there,
who must to morrow rob me of my Heaven?--I'll own my Flame--and boldly
tell this Fop, she must be mine--

_Friend_. I assure you, Sir _Timothy_, I am sorry, and will chastise her.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, Sir, I that am a Knight--a Man of Parts and Wit, and one
that is to be your Brother, and design'd to be the Glory of marrying
_Celinda_.

_Bel_. I can endure no more--How, Sir--You marry fair _Celinda!_

Sir _Tim_. Ay, _Frank_, ay--is she not a pretty little plump white
Rogue, hah?

_Bel_. Yes.

Sir _Tim_. Oh, I had forgot thou art a modest Rogue, and to thy eternal
Shame, hadst never the Reputation of a Mistress--Lord, Lord, that I
could see thee address thy self to a Lady--I fancy thee a very ridiculous
Figure in that Posture, by Fortune.

_Bel_. Why, Sir, I can court a Lady--

Sir _Tim_. No, no, thou'rt modest; that is to say, a Country Gentleman;
that is to say, ill-bred; that is to say, a Fool, by Fortune, as the
World goes.

_Bel_. Neither, Sir--I can love--and tell it too--and that you may
believe me--look on this Lady, Sir.