Cel.  Sufficiently—­

Dia.  But in the Family where I was educated, a Youth of my own Age, a Kinsman too, I chanc’d to fall in love with, but with a Passion my Pride still got the better of; and he, I thought, repaid my young Desires.  But Bashfulness on his part, did what Pride had done on mine, And kept his too conceal’d—­At last my Uncle, who had the absolute Dominion of us both, thought good to marry us together.

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!