Sham.  Faith, Sir, you have it, and there you may have an Opportunity to court Bellmour’s Sister.

Sir Tim.  ’Tis a good Motion, and we will follow it; send to the Duke’s House, and borrow some Habits presently.

Sham.  I’ll about it, Sir.

Sir Tim.  Make haste to my Lodging—­But hark ye—­not a word of this to Betty Flauntit, she’ll be up in Arms these two Days, if she go not with us; and though I think the fond Devil is true to me, yet it were worse than Wedlock, if I should be so to her too.

Tho Whores in all things else the Mastery get,
In this alone, like Wives, they must submit.

Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE I. A Room in Lord Plotwell’s House.

Enter Lord Plotwell, Bellmour leading in Diana, follow’d by
Charles Bellmour, Phillis, and other Ladies and Gentlemen.
[Musick plays, till they are all seated.

Lord.  Here, Nephew, I resign that Trust, which was repos’d in me by your dead Father; which was, that on your Wedding-Day I should thus—­ make you Master of your whole Fortune, you being married to my liking—­ And now, Charles, and you, my Niece Phillis, you may demand your Portions to morrow, if you please, for he is oblig’d to pay you the Day after that of his Marriage.

Phil.  There’s time enough, my Lord.

Lord.  Come, come, Ladies, in troth you must take but little Rest to Night, in complaisance to the Bride and Bridegroom, who, I believe, will take but little—­Frank—­why, Frank—­what, hast thou chang’d thy Humour with thy Condition?  Thou wert not wont to hear the Musick play in vain.

Bel.  My Lord, I cannot dance.

Dia.  Indeed, you’re wondrous sad,
And I, methinks, do bear thee Company,
I know not why; and yet excess of Joy
Have had the same Effects with equal Grief.

Bel.  ’Tis true, and I have now felt the Extremes of both.

Lord.  Why, Nephew Charles—­has your Breeding at the Academy instructed your Heels in no Motion?

Char.  My Lord, I’ll make one.

Phil.  And I another, for Joy that my Brother’s made happy in so fair a Bride.

Bel.  Hell take your Ignorance, for thinking I am happy,—­
Wou’d Heaven wou’d strike me dead,
That by the loss of a poor wretched Life
I might preserve my Soul—­But Oh, my Error! 
That has already damn’d it self, when it consented
To break a Sacred Vow, and Marry here.

Lord.  Come, come, begin, begin, Musick to your Office.

[Soft Musick.

Bel.  Why does not this hard Heart, this stubborn Fugitive,
Break with this Load of Griefs? but like ill Spirits
It promis’d fair, till it had drawn me in,
And then betray’d me to Damnation.