Char.  And can you love her, Sir?

Bel.  No, if I did, I wou’d not gratify her.

Char.  What, is’t in Charity to keep her honest?

Bel.  Neither.

Char.  Is your Lust grown so high—­

Bel.  Take that—­ [Strikes him.  For naming but so base a thing to me.

Char.  I wear a Sword, but not to draw on Mad-men.  But since y’are so free, Sir, I demand that Fortune, which by my Father’s Will y’are bound to pay the day after your Wedding-Day; my Sister’s too is due.

Bel.  Ha, ha, ha,—­Sir Timothy, come hither—­who dost think this is?

Sir Tim.  A Fidler, perhaps—­let him play in the next Room.

Bel.  No, my Brother—­come to demand his Portion of me; he says I am in leud Company, and, like a Boy, he wou’d correct me.

Sir Tim.  Why, this comes of Idleness; thou should’st have bound him
Prentice in time, the Boy would have made a good saucy Taylor.

Char.  Sirrah, y’are a Rascal, whom I must thus chastise.
          
                                         [Kicks him.

[They all draw, and Bellmour stands foremost, and fights
with Charles; the Women run squeaking out, Sir Tim. 
Sham, and Sharp sneak behind; Trusty interposes.

Trust.  Hold, hold, I beseech you, my dear Masters!  Oh, what a fight is this?  Two Brothers fighting with each other!  Oh, were my old Master alive, this wou’d break his Heart:  Oh, Sir, you’ve kill’d your Brother!

Bel.  Why, then his Portion’s paid.
                           [Charles wounded.

Sir Tim.  How, kill’d!  Nay, ’tis time we departed then, and shifted for ourselves.

[Ex.  Sir Tim.  Sham and Sharp.

Trust.  Oh, Sir, shall I send for a Chyrurgion?

Char.  No, for a Coach rather, I am not wounded much.

[Ex.  Trusty.

Bel.  How dar’st thou trust thy self alone with me?

Char.  Why should I fear thee?

Bel.  Because I’m mad, Mad as a Tygress rob’d of her dear Young.

Char.  What is’t that makes you so?

Bel.  My Uncle’s Politicks, Hell take him for’t,
Has ruin’d me, thou and my Sister too,
By marrying me to a fair hated Maid,
When I had plighted all my Faith before.

    Enter Trusty.

Trust.  Sir, here’s a Coach.

Char.  Come, Brother, will you go home with me?

Bel.  Home!—­no, never to that place thou call’st so. 
If, when I’m dead, thou wouldst behold thy Brother,
And take the last Adieu from his cold Lips,
(If those so perjur’d can deserve that kindness)
Inquire for lost Celinda, at whose Feet
Thou shalt behold me fall’n a Sacrifice. 
Till then, I’ll let mistaken Parents know
The mischiefs that ensue a broken Vow.