Lord. In good time: but this is a Mortal, Sir—and must serve your turn—but, Frank, she is the finest Mortal—
Bel. I humbly beg your Pardon, if I tell you,
That had she Beauty such as Heav’n ne’er made,
Nor meant again t’inrich a Woman with,
It cou’d not take my Heart.
Lord. But, Sir, perhaps you do not guess the Lady.
Bel. Or cou’d I, Sir, it cou’d not change my Nature.
Lord. But, Sir, suppose it be my Niece Diana.
Bel. How, Sir, the fair Diana!
Lord. I thought thou’dst come about again; What think you now of Woman-kind, and Wedlock?
Bel. As I did before, my Lord.
Lord. What, thou canst not think I am in earnest; I confess, Frank, she is above thee in point of Fortune, she being my only Heir—but suppose ‘tis she.
Bel. Oh, I’m undone!—Sir, I dare not suppose so greatly in favour of my self.