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?