Himself he throws, and rifles all her Charms_.

Good morrow, Mr. _Bellmour_, and to your lovely Bride, long may you
live and love.

_Enter_ Bellmour _above_.

_Bel_. Who is't has sent that Curse?

Sir _Tim_. What a Pox, is that _Bellmour_? The Rogue's in choler, the
Bride has not pleas'd him.

_Bel_. Dogs! Do you upbraid me? I'll be with you presently.

Sir _Tim_. Will you so?--but I'll not stay your coming.

_Cel_. But you shall, Sir.

_Bel_. Turn, Villains!

[_Sir_ Tim. _&c. offers to go off_, Celinda _steps forth, and
draws, they draw, and set upon her. Enter_ Bellmour _behind them:
They turn, and_ Celinda _sides with_ Bellmour, _and fights. Enter_
Diana, Bellmour _fights 'em out, and leaves_ Celinda _breathless,
leaning on her Sword_.

_Dia_. I'll ne'er demand the cause of this disorder,
But take this opportunity to fly
To the next hands will take me up--who's here?