[Exeunt.
SCENE II. A Chamber.
Celinda in her Night-Attire, leaning on a Table.
Enter to her Bellmour and Nurse.
Cel. Oh Heavens! Mr. Bellmour at this late Hour in my Chamber!
Bel. Yes, Madam; but will approach no nearer till you permit me; And sure you know my Soul too well to fear.
Cel. I do, Sir, and you may approach yet nearer, And let me know your Business.
Bel. Love is my bus’ness, that of all the World; Only my Flame as much surmounts the rest, As is the Object’s Beauty I adore.
Cel. If this be all, to tell me of your Love, To morrow might have done as well.
Bel. Oh, no, to morrow would have been too late,
Too late to make returns to all my Pain.
—What disagreeing thing offends your Eyes?
I’ve no Deformity about my Person;
I’m young, and have a Fortune great as any
That do pretend to serve you;
And yet I find my Interest in your Heart,
Below those happy ones that are my Rivals.
Nay, every Fool that can but plead his Title,
And the poor Interest that a Parent gives him,
Can merit more than I.
—What else, my lovely Maid, can give a freedom
To that same talking, idle, knighted Fop?
Cel. Oh, if I am so wretched to be his, Surely I cannot live; For, Sir, I must confess I cannot love him.