_Cel_. Punish him, Heaven, for a Sin so great.
--And are you married then?
_Dia_. Why is there Terror in that Word?
_Cel_. By all that's Sacred, 'tis a Word that kills me.
Oh, say thou art not; And I thus low will fall, and pay thee Thanks. [_Kneels_.
_Dia_. You'll wish indeed I were not, when you know How very, very wretched it has made me.
_Cel_. Shou'd you be telling me a Tale all day, Such as would melt a Heart that ne'er could love, 'Twould not increase my Reason for the wish That I had dy'd e'er known you had been married.
_Dia_. So many soft Words from my _Bellmour's_ mouth Had made me mad with Joy, and next to that I wish to hear 'em from this Youth; If they be real, how I shall be reveng'd! [_Aside_.
--But why at my being married should you sigh?
_Cel_. Because I love, is that a Wonder, Madam?
Have you not Charms sufficient at first sight To wound a Heart tender and young as mine?
Are you not heavenly fair? Oh, there's my Grief-- Since you must be another's.
_Dia_. Pray hear me out; and if you love me after, Perhaps you may not think your self unhappy.
When Night was come, the long'd for Night, and all Retir'd to give us silent Room for Joy--
_Cel_. Oh, I can hear no more--by Heav'n, I cannot.
--Here--stab me to the Heart--let out my Life, I cannot live, and hear what follow'd next.
_Dia_. Pray hear me, Sir--
_Cel_. Oh, you will tell me he was kind-- Yes, yes--oh God--were not his balmy Kisses Sweeter than Incense offer'd up to Heaven?
Did not his Arms, softer and whiter far Than those of _Jove's_ transform'd to Wings of Swans, Greedily clasp thee round?--Oh, quickly speak, Whilst thy fair rising Bosom met with his; And then--Oh--then--
_Dia_. Alas, Sir! What's the matter?--sit down a while.
_Cel_. Now--I am well--pardon me, lovely Creature, If I betray a Passion, I'm too young To've learnt the Art of hiding; --I cannot hear you say that he was kind.
_Dia_. Kind! yes, as Blasts to Flow'rs, or early Fruit; All gay I met him full of youthful Heat: But like a Damp, he dasht my kindled Flame, And all his Reason was--he lov'd another, A Maid he call'd _Celinda_.
_Cel_. Oh blessed Man!
_Dia_. How, Sir?
_Cel_. To leave thee free, to leave thee yet a Virgin.
_Dia_. Yes, I have vow'd he never shall possess me.
_Cel_. Oh, how you bless me--but you still are married, And whilst you are so--I must languish--
_Dia_. Oh, how his Softness moves me! [_Aside_.
--But can all this Disorder spring from Love?
_Cel_. Or may I still prove wretched.
_Dia_. And can you think there are no ways For me to gratify that Love?
What ways am I constrain'd to use to work out my Revenge! [_Aside_.
_Cel_. How mean you, Madam?
_Dia_. Without a Miracle, look on my Eyes-- And Beauty--which you say can kindle Fires; --She that can give, may too retain Desires.
_Cel_. She'll ravish me--let me not understand you.
_Dia_. Look on my Wrongs-- Wrongs that would melt a frozen Chastity, That a religious Vow had made to Heaven: --And next survey thy own Perfections.
_Cel_. Hah--
_Dia_. Art thou so young, thou canst not apprehend me?
Fair bashful Boy, hast thou the Power to move, And yet not know the Bus'ness of thy Love?
_Cel_. How in an instant thou hast chill'd my Blood, And made me know no Woman can be good?
'Tis Sin enough to yield--but thus to sue Heav'n--'tis my Business--and not meant for you.
_Dia_. How little Love is understood by thee, 'Tis Custom, and not Passion you pursue; Because Enjoyment first was nam'd by me, It does destroy what shou'd your Flame renew: My easy yielding does your Fire abate, And mine as much your tedious Courtship hate.
Tell Heaven--you will hereafter sacrifice, --And see how that will please the Deities.
The ready Victim is the noblest way, Your Zeal and Obligations too to pay.
_Cel_. I think the Gods wou'd hardly be ador'd, If they their Blessings shou'd, unask'd, afford; And I that Beauty can no more admire, Who ere I sue, can yield to my Desire.
_Dia_. Dull Youth, farewel: For since 'tis my Revenge that I pursue Less Beauty and more Man as well may do.
[_Offers to go_.
_Enter_ Friendlove _disguised, as one from a Camp_.
_Cel_. Madam, you must not go with this Mistake.
[_Holds her_.
_Friend_. _Celinda_ has inform'd me true--'tis she-- Good morrow, Brother, what, so early at your Devotions?
_Cel_. O, my Brother's come, and luckily relieves me. [_Aside_.
_Friend_. Your Orizons are made to a fair Saint.
--Pray, Sir, what Lady's that?
--Or is it blasphemy to repeat her Name?
--By my bright Arms, she's fair--With what a charming Fierceness, she charges through my Body to my Heart.
--Death! how her glittering Eyes give Fire, and wound!
And have already pierc'd my very Soul!
--May I approach her, Brother?
_Cel_. Yes, if you dare, there's danger in it though, She has Charms that will bewitch you: --I dare not stand their Mischief.
[_Exit_.