Dia.  How, Sir?

Cel.  To leave thee free, to leave thee yet a Virgin.

Dia.  Yes, I have vow’d he never shall possess me.

Cel.  Oh, how you bless me—­but you still are married, And whilst you are so—­I must languish—­

Dia.  Oh, how his Softness moves me! [Aside.  —­But can all this Disorder spring from Love?

Cel.  Or may I still prove wretched.

Dia.  And can you think there are no ways
For me to gratify that Love? 
What ways am I constrain’d to use to work out my Revenge! [Aside.

Cel.  How mean you, Madam?

Dia.  Without a Miracle, look on my Eyes—­ And Beauty—­which you say can kindle Fires; —­She that can give, may too retain Desires.

Cel.  She’ll ravish me—­let me not understand you.

Dia.  Look on my Wrongs—­
Wrongs that would melt a frozen Chastity,
That a religious Vow had made to Heaven: 
—­And next survey thy own Perfections.

Cel.  Hah—­

Dia.  Art thou so young, thou canst not apprehend me?  Fair bashful Boy, hast thou the Power to move, And yet not know the Bus’ness of thy Love?

Cel.  How in an instant thou hast chill’d my Blood,
And made me know no Woman can be good? 
’Tis Sin enough to yield—­but thus to sue
Heav’n—­’tis my Business—­and not meant for you.

Dia.  How little Love is understood by thee,
’Tis Custom, and not Passion you pursue;
Because Enjoyment first was nam’d by me,
It does destroy what shou’d your Flame renew: 
My easy yielding does your Fire abate,
And mine as much your tedious Courtship hate. 
Tell Heaven—­you will hereafter sacrifice,
—­And see how that will please the Deities. 
The ready Victim is the noblest way,
Your Zeal and Obligations too to pay.

Cel.  I think the Gods wou’d hardly be ador’d,
If they their Blessings shou’d, unask’d, afford;
And I that Beauty can no more admire,
Who ere I sue, can yield to my Desire.

Dia.  Dull Youth, farewel: 
For since ’tis my Revenge that I pursue
Less Beauty and more Man as well may do.
                               [Offers to go.

Enter Friendlove disguised, as one from a Camp.

Cel.  Madam, you must not go with this Mistake.
                                          [Holds her.

Friend. Celinda has inform’d me true—­’tis she—­ Good morrow, Brother, what, so early at your Devotions?

Cel.  O, my Brother’s come, and luckily relieves me. [Aside.

Friend.  Your Orizons are made to a fair Saint. 
—­Pray, Sir, what Lady’s that? 
—­Or is it blasphemy to repeat her Name? 
—­By my bright Arms, she’s fair—­With what a charming
Fierceness, she charges through my Body to my Heart. 
—­Death! how her glittering Eyes give Fire, and wound! 
And have already pierc’d my very Soul! 
—­May I approach her, Brother?