Nur. Nay, then dispose of your self, I say, and leave dissembling; ’.is high time.
Bel. This Night the Letter came, the dreadful News Of thy being married, and to morrow too. Oh, answer me, or I shall die with Fear.
Cel. I must confess it, Sir, without a blush,
(For ‘tis no Sin to love) that I cou’d wish—
Heaven and my Father were inclin’d my way:
But I am all Obedience to their Wills.
Bel. That Sigh was kind,
But e’er to morrow this time,
You’ll want this pitying Sense, and feel no Pantings,
But those which Joys and Pleasures do create.
Cel. Alas, Sir! what is’t you’d have me do?
Bel. Why—I wou’d have you love, and after that
You need not be instructed what to do.
Give me your Faith, give me your solemn Vow
To be my Wife, and I shall be at Peace.
Cel. Have you consider’d, Sir, your own Condition? ’.is in your Uncle’s Power to take your Fortune, If in your Choice you disobey his Will. —And, Sir, you know that mine is much below you.
Bel. Oh, I shall calm his Rage,
By urging so much Reason as thy Beauty,
And my own Flame, on which my Life depends.
—He now has kindly sent for me to London,
I fear his Bus’ness—
Yet if you’ll yield to marry me,
We’ll keep it secret, till our kinder Stars
Have made provision for the blest Discovery.
Come, give me your Vows, or we must part for ever.
Cel. Part! Oh, ‘tis a fatal Word! I will do any thing to save that Life, To which my own so nearly is ally’d.
Enter Friendlove.