_Page_. Yes, indeed, to the Lady _Diana_.

Sir _Tim_. _Diana!_ Mad, by Fortune; what _Diana_?

_Page_. Niece to the Lord _Plotwell_.

Sir _Tim_. Come hither, Boy--Art thou sure of this?

_Page_. Sir, I am sure of it; and I am going to bespeak Musick for the
Ball anon.

Sir _Tim_. What hast thou there--a Letter to the Divine _Celinda_?
A dainty Boy--there's Money for to buy thee Nickers.

_Page_. I humbly thank you.
[_Exit_.

_Sharp_. Well, Sir, if this be true, _Celinda_ will be glad of you again.

Sir. _Tim_. Ay, but I will have none of her--For, look you, _Sham_,
there is but two sorts of Love in this World--Now I am sure the Rogue
did love her; and since it was not to marry her, it was for the thing
you wot on, as appears by his writing to her now--But yet, I will not
believe what this Boy said, till I see it.

_Sham_. Faith, Sir, I have thought of a thing, that may both clear your
doubt, and give us a little Mirth.

Sir _Tim_. I conceive thee.