Dia.  Come, Sir, you must forget Celinda’s Charms,
And reap Delights within my circling Arms,
Delights that may your Errors undeceive,
When you find Joys as great as she can give.

Bel.  What do I hear?—­is this the kind Relief
Thou dost allow to my Despair and Grief? 
Is this the Comfort that thou dost impart
To my all-wounded, bleeding, dying Heart? 
Were I so brutal, cou’d thy Love comply
To serve it self with base Adultery? 
For cou’d I love thee, cou’d I love again,
Our Lives wou’d be but one continu’d Sin: 
A Sin of that black dye, a Sin so foul,
’Twou’d leave no Hopes of Heav’n for either’s Soul.

Dia.  Dull Man!  Dost think a feeble vain Excuse
Shall satisfy me for this Night’s abuse? 
No, since my Passion thou’st defeated thus,
And robb’d me of my long-wish’d Happiness,
I’ll make thee know what a wrong’d Maid can do,
Divided ’twixt her Love and Injuries too.

Bel.  I dare thy worst;
Shou’d Hell assist thy Aims, thou cou’dst not find,
New Plagues, unless thou shou’dst continue kind,
Hard Fate, Diana, when thy Love must be
The greatest Curse that can arrive to me. 
—­That Friendship which our Infant Years begun,
And till this Day has still continued on,
I will preserve; and my Respects shall be
Profound, as what was ever paid by me: 
But for my Love, ’tis to Celinda due,
And I can pay you none that’s just and true.

Dia.  The rest I’d have thee know I do despise,
I better understand my conquering Eyes;
Those Eyes that shall revenge my Love and Shame,
I’ll kill thy Reputation and thy Name.
                                   [Exit.

Bel.  My Honour! and my Reputation, now! 
They both were forfeit, when I broke my Vow,
Nor cou’d my Honour with thy Fame decline;
Whoe’er profanes thee, injures nought of mine. 
This Night upon the Couch my self I’ll lay,
And like Franciscans, let th’ensuing Day
Take care for all the Toils it brings with it;
Whatever Fate arrives, I can submit.

[Exit.

SCENE III. A Street.

Enter Celinda, drest as before.

Cel.  Not one kind Wound to send me to my Grave,
And yet between their angry Swords I ran,
Expecting it from Bellmour, or my Brother’s: 
Oh, my hard Fate! that gave me so much Misery,
And dealt no Courage to prevent the shock. 
—­Why came I off alive, that fatal Place
Where I beheld my Bellmour, in th’embrace
Of my extremely fair, and lovely Rival? 
—­With what kind Care she did prevent my Arm,
Which (greedy of the last sad-parting twine)
I wou’d have thrown about him, as if she knew
To what intent I made the passionate Offer? 
—­What have I next to do, but seek a Death
Wherever I can meet it—­Who comes here? [Goes aside.