Lord. Come, come, Ladies, in troth you must take but little Rest to Night, in complaisance to the Bride and Bridegroom, who, I believe, will take but little—Frank—why, Frank—what, hast thou chang’d thy Humour with thy Condition? Thou wert not wont to hear the Musick play in vain.
Bel. My Lord, I cannot dance.
Dia. Indeed, you’re wondrous sad,
And I, methinks, do bear thee Company,
I know not why; and yet excess of Joy
Have had the same Effects with equal Grief.
Bel. ‘Tis true, and I have now felt the Extremes of both.
Lord. Why, Nephew Charles—has your Breeding at the Academy instructed your Heels in no Motion?
Char. My Lord, I’ll make one.
Phil. And I another, for Joy that my Brother’s made happy in so fair a Bride.
Bel. Hell take your Ignorance, for thinking I am happy,—
Wou’d Heaven wou’d strike me dead,
That by the loss of a poor wretched Life
I might preserve my Soul—But Oh, my Error!
That has already damn’d it self, when it consented
To break a Sacred Vow, and Marry here.
Lord. Come, come, begin, begin, Musick to your Office.
[Soft Musick.