Dia.  There’s something of disorder in his Soul, Which I’m on fire to know the meaning of.

Enter Sir Timothy, Sham, and Sharp, in Masquerade.

Sir Tim.  The Rogue is married, and I am so pleas’d, I can forgive him our last Night’s Quarrel.  Prithee, Sharp, if thou canst learn that young Thing’s Name, ’tis a pretty airy Rogue, whilst I go talk to her.

Sharp.  I will, Sir, I will.

[One goes to take out a Lady.

Char.  Nay, Madam, you must dance. [Dance.

Bel.  I hope you will not call it Rudeness, Madam, if I refuse you here.

[The Lady that danced goes to take out the Bridegroom.  After the
Dance she takes out Sir Timothy, they walk to a Courant.

Am I still tame and patient with my Ills? 
Gods! what is Man, that he can live and bear,
Yet know his Power to rid himself of Grief? 
I will not live; or if my Destiny
Compel me to’t, it shall be worse than dying.

    Enter Page with a Table-Book.

Bel.  What’s this?

Page.  The Answer of a Letter, Sir, you sent the divine Celinda; for so it was directed.

Bel.—­Hah—­Celinda—­in my Croud of Thoughts
I had forgot I sent—­come nearer, Boy—­
What did she say to thee?—­Did she not smile? 
And use thee with Contempt and Scorn?—­tell me.

Page.  How scorn, Sir!

Bel.  Or she was angry—­call’d me perjur’d Villain, False, and forsworn—­nay, tell me truth.

Page.  How, Sir?

Bel.  Thou dost delay me—­say she did, and please me.

Page.  Sir!

Bel.  Again—­tell me, what answer, Rascal, did she send me?

Page.  You have it, Sir, there in the Table-Book.

Bel.  Oh, I am mad, and know not what I do. 
—­Prithee forgive me, Boy—­take breath, my Soul,
Before thou do’st begin; for this—­perhaps, may be
So cruel kind,
To leave thee none when thou hast ended it.
                                   [Opens it, and reads.

  LETTER.

I have took in the Poison which you sent, in those few fatal Words, “Forgive me, my Celinda, I am married”—­’Twas thus you said—­And I have only Life left to return, “Forgive me my sweet Bellmour, I am dead.”  CELINDA.

Can I hear this, and live?—­I am a Villian! 
In my Creation destin’d for all Mischief,
—­To commit Rapes, and Murders, to break Vows,
As fast as Fools do Jests. 
Come hither, Boy—­
And said the Lady nothing to thee?

Page.  Yes, e’er she read the Letter, ask’d your Health, And Joy dispers’d it self in Blushes through her Cheeks.

Bel.  Her Beauty makes the very Boy adore it.