Cel.  Oh, if I am so wretched to be his,
Surely I cannot live;
For, Sir, I must confess I cannot love him.

Bel.  But thou may’st do as bad, and marry him,
And that’s a Sin I cannot over-live;
—­No, hear my Vows—­

Cel.  But are you, Sir, in earnest?

Bel.  In earnest?  Yes, by all that’s good, I am; I love you more than I do Life, or Heaven!

Cel.  Oh, what a pleasure ’tis to hear him say so! [Aside.  —­But pray, how long, Sir, have you lov’d me so?

Bel.  From the first moment that I saw your Eyes, Your charming killing Eyes, I did adore ’em; And ever since have languisht Day and Night.

Nur.  Come, come, ne’er stand asking of Questions, But follow your Inclinations, and take him at his Word.

Bel.  Celinda, take her Counsel,
Perhaps this is the last opportunity;
Nay, and, by Heaven, the last of all my Life,
If you refuse me now—­
Say, will you never marry Man but me?

Cel.  Pray give me till to morrow, Sir, to answer you;
For I have yet some Fears about my Soul,
That take away my Rest.

Bel.  To morrow!  You must then marry—­Oh fatal Word!  Another! a Beast, a Fool, that knows not how to value you.

Cel.  Is’t possible my Fate shou’d be so near?

Nur.  Nay, then dispose of your self, I say, and leave dissembling; ’tis high time.

Bel.  This Night the Letter came, the dreadful News
Of thy being married, and to morrow too. 
Oh, answer me, or I shall die with Fear.

Cel.  I must confess it, Sir, without a blush,
(For ’tis no Sin to love) that I cou’d wish—­
Heaven and my Father were inclin’d my way: 
But I am all Obedience to their Wills.

Bel.  That Sigh was kind,
But e’er to morrow this time,
You’ll want this pitying Sense, and feel no Pantings,
But those which Joys and Pleasures do create.

Cel.  Alas, Sir! what is’t you’d have me do?

Bel.  Why—­I wou’d have you love, and after that
You need not be instructed what to do. 
Give me your Faith, give me your solemn Vow
To be my Wife, and I shall be at Peace.

Cel.  Have you consider’d, Sir, your own Condition? 
’Tis in your Uncle’s Power to take your Fortune,
If in your Choice you disobey his Will. 
—­And, Sir, you know that mine is much below you.

Bel.  Oh, I shall calm his Rage,
By urging so much Reason as thy Beauty,
And my own Flame, on which my Life depends. 
—­He now has kindly sent for me to London,
I fear his Bus’ness—­
Yet if you’ll yield to marry me,
We’ll keep it secret, till our kinder Stars
Have made provision for the blest Discovery. 
Come, give me your Vows, or we must part for ever.

Cel.  Part!  Oh, ’tis a fatal Word! 
I will do any thing to save that Life,
To which my own so nearly is ally’d.