_Bel_. As I did before, my Lord.
_Lord_. What, thou canst not think I am in earnest; I confess, _Frank_, she is above thee in point of Fortune, she being my only Heir--but suppose 'tis she.
_Bel_. Oh, I'm undone!--Sir, I dare not suppose so greatly in favour of my self.
_Lord_. But, _Frank_, you must needs suppose--
_Bel_. Oh, I am ruin'd, lost, for ever lost.
_Lord_. What do you mean, Sir?
_Bel_. I mean, I cannot marry fair _Diana_.
_Lord_. Death! how's this?
_Bel_. She is a thing above my humble wishes--
_Lord_. Is that all? Take you no care for that; for she loves you already, and I have resolv'd it, which is better yet.
_Bel_. Love me, Sir! I know she cannot, And Heav'n forbid that I should injure her.
_Lord_. Sir, this is a Put-off: resolve quickly, or I'll compel you.
_Bel_. You wou'd not use Extremity; What is the Forfeit of my Disobedience?
_Lord_. The loss of all your Fortune, If you refuse the Wife I have provided-- Especially a handsom Lady, as she is, _Frank_.
_Bel_. Oh me, unhappy!
What cursed Laws provided this Severity?
_Lord_. Even those of your Father's Disposal, who seeing so many Examples in this leud Age, of the ruin of whole Families by imprudent Marriages, provided otherwise for you.
_Bel_. But, Sir, admit _Diana_ be inclin'd, And I (by my unhappy Stars so curs'd) Should be unable to accept the Honour.
_Lord_. How, Sir! admit!--I can no more admit, Than you can suppose--therefore give me your final Answer.
_Bel_. Sir, can you think a Blessing e'er can fall Upon that Pair, whom Interest joins, not Love?
_Lord_. Why, what's in _Diana_, that you shou'd not love her?
_Bel_. I must confess she has a thousand Virtues, The least of which wou'd bless another Man; But, Sir, I hope, if I am so unhappy As not to love that Lady, you will pardon me.
_Lord_. Indeed, Sir, but I will not; love me this Lady, and marry me this Lady, or I will teach you what it is to refuse such a Lady.
_Bel_. Sir, 'tis not in my power to obey you.
_Lord_. How! not in your pow'r?
_Bel_. No, Sir, I see my fatal Ruin in your Eyes, And know too well your Force, and my own Misery.
--But, Sir--when I shall tell you who I've married--
_Lord_. Who you've married;--By all that's sacred, if that be true, thou art undone for ever.
_Bel_. O hear me, Sir!
I came with Hopes to have found you merciful.
_Lord_. Expect none from me; no, thou shalt not have So much of thy Estate, as will afford thee Bread: By Heav'n, thou shalt not.
_Bel_. Oh, pity me, my Lord, pity my Youth; It is no Beggar, nor one basely born, That I have given my Heart to, but a Maid, Whose Birth, whose Beauty, and whose Education Merits the best of Men.
_Lord_. Very fine! where is the Priest that durst dispose of you without my Order? Sirrah, you are my Slave--at least your whole Estate is at my mercy--and besides, I'll charge you with an Action of 5000 pounds. For your ten Years Maintenance: Do you know that this in my power too?
_Bel_. Yes, Sir, and dread your Anger worse than Death.
_Lord_. Oh Villain! thus to dash my Expectation!
_Bel_. Sir, on my bended Knees, thus low I fall To beg your mercy.
_Lord_. Yes, Sir, I will have mercy; I'll give you Lodging--but in a Dungeon, Sir, Where you shall ask your Food of Passers by.
_Bel_. All this, I know, you have the Pow'r to do; But, Sir, were I thus cruel, this hard Usage Would give me Cause to execute it.
I wear a Sword, and I dare right my self; And Heaven wou'd pardon it, if I should kill you: But Heav'n forbid I shou'd correct that Law, Which gives you Power, and orders me Obedience.
_Lord_. Very well, Sir, I shall tame that Courage, and punish that Harlot, whoe'er she be, that has seduc'd ye.
_Bel_. How, Harlot, Sir!--Death, such another Word, And through all Laws and Reason I will rush, And reach thy Soul, if mortal like thy Body.
--No, Sir, she's chaste, as are the new-made Vows I breath'd upon her Lips, when last we parted.
_Lord_. Who waits there?
Enter Trusty and Servants.
--Shall I be murder'd in my own House?
'Tis time you were remov'd-- Go, get an Action of 5000 pounds, enter'd against him, With Officers to arrest him.
_Trusty_. My Lord, 'tis my young Master _Bellmour_.
_Lord_. Ye all doat upon him, but he's not the Man you take him for.
_Trusty_. How, my Lord! not this Mr. _Bellmour_!
_Lord_. Dogs, obey me.
[_Offers to go_.
_Bel_. Stay, Sir--oh, stay--what will become of me?
'Twere better that my Life were lost, than Fortune-- For that being gone, _Celinda_ must not love me.
--But to die wretchedly-- Poorly in Prison--whilst I can manage this-- Is below him, that does adore _Celinda. [Draws_.
I'll kill my self--but then--I kill _Celinda_.