[Exeunt.

Enter Lord Plotwell, and Bellmour.

Lord.  And well, Frank, how dost thou find thy self inclin’d? thou should’st begin to think of something more than Books.  Do’st thou not wish to know the Joys that are to be found in a Woman, Frank?  I well remember at thy Age I fancy’d a thousand fine things of that kind.

Bel.  Ay, my Lord, a thousand more perhaps than are to be found.

Lord.  Not so; but I confess, Frank, unless the Lady be fair, and there be some Love too, ’tis not altogether so well; therefore I, who am still busy for thy good, have fix’d upon a Lady—­

Bel.  Ha!—­

Lord.  What, dost start?  Nay, I’ll warrant thee she’ll please; A Lady rich, and fair, and nobly born, and thou shalt marry her, Frank.

Bel.  Marry her, my Lord—­

Lord.  Why, yes, marry her—­I hope you are none of the fashionable Fops, that are always in Mutiny against Marriage, who never think themselves very witty, but when they rail against Heaven and a Wife—­ But, Frank, I have found better Principles in thee, and thou hast the Reputation of a sober young Gentleman; thou art, besides, a Man of great Fortune, Frank.

Bel.  And therefore, Sir, ought the less to be a Slave.

Lord.  But, Frank, we are made for one another; and ought, by the Laws of God, to communicate our Blessings.

Bel.  Sir, there are Men enough, fitter much than I, to obey those Laws; nor do I think them made for every one.

Lord.  But, Frank, you do not know what a Wife I have provided for you.

Bel.  ’Tis enough I know she’s a Woman, Sir.

Lord.  A Woman! why, what should she be else?

Bel.  An Angel, Sir, e’er she can be my Wife.

Lord.  In good time:  but this is a Mortal, Sir—­and must serve your turn—­but, Frank, she is the finest Mortal—­

Bel.  I humbly beg your Pardon, if I tell you,
That had she Beauty such as Heav’n ne’er made,
Nor meant again t’inrich a Woman with,
It cou’d not take my Heart.

Lord.  But, Sir, perhaps you do not guess the Lady.

Bel.  Or cou’d I, Sir, it cou’d not change my Nature.

Lord.  But, Sir, suppose it be my Niece Diana.

Bel.  How, Sir, the fair Diana!

Lord.  I thought thou’dst come about again; What think you now of Woman-kind, and Wedlock?

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.