_Phil_. Is it possible you can love at all?

Sir _Tim_. As much as I dare.

_Phil_. How do you mean?

Sir _Tim_. Not to be laught at; 'tis not the Mode to love much; A
Platonick Fop I have heard of, but this is an Age of sheer Enjoyment,
and little Love goes to that; we have found it incommode, and loss of
time, to make long Addresses.

_Enter_ Celinda _like a Boy_.

_Phil_. I find, Sir, you and I shall never agree upon this matter;
But see, Sir, here's more Company.

_Cel_. Oh Heaven! 'tis true, these Eyes confirm my Fate.
Yonder he is--and that fair splendid Thing,
That gazes on him with such kind Desire,
Is my blest Rival--Oh, he is married!
--Gods! And yet you let him live;
Live too with all his Charms, as fine and gay,
As if you meant he shou'd undo all easy Maids,
And kill 'em for their Sin of loving him.
Wretched _Celinda_!
But I must turn my Eyes from looking on
The fatal Triumphs of my Death--Which of all these
Is my Brother? Oh, that is he: I know him
By the Habit he sent for to the Play-House.