Cel. Do, whilst I meet thy Sword.
[Opens her Arms, Diana stays him; he lets fall his Sword, and gazes.
Bel, Dull—dull Adorer! Not to know my Saint.
Oh, how I have profan’d! To what strange Idol
Was that I kneel’d,
Mistaking it for a Divinity?
Cel. To your fair Wife Diana.
Bel. Oh cruel Maid! Has Heav’n design’d me any but Celinda?
Dia. Maid! Bless me!—did I then love a Woman? —I am pleas’d thou should’st renounce me; make it good, And set me free from Fetters which I hate.
Bel. If all our Laws can do’t, I will—for here Ends all my Claim. [To Celinda.
Friend. Was this the Wife you did demand of me?
Bel. Yes, I had no other.
Dia. Fair Maid! forgive me all my shameful Passion, And charge my Fault upon your Beauty only.