Bel. Why does not this hard Heart, this stubborn Fugitive,
Break with this Load of Griefs? but like ill Spirits
It promis’d fair, till it had drawn me in,
And then betray’d me to Damnation.
Dia. There’s something of disorder in his Soul, Which I’m on fire to know the meaning of.
Enter Sir Timothy, Sham, and Sharp, in Masquerade.
Sir Tim. The Rogue is married, and I am so pleas’d, I can forgive him our last Night’s Quarrel. Prithee, Sharp, if thou canst learn that young Thing’s Name, ‘tis a pretty airy Rogue, whilst I go talk to her.
Sharp. I will, Sir, I will.
[One goes to take out a Lady.
Char. Nay, Madam, you must dance. [Dance.
Bel. I hope you will not call it Rudeness, Madam, if I refuse you here.
[The Lady that danced goes to take out the Bridegroom. After the
Dance she takes out Sir Timothy, they walk to a Courant.
Am I still tame and patient with my Ills?
Gods! what is Man, that he can live and bear,
Yet know his Power to rid himself of Grief?
I will not live; or if my Destiny
Compel me to’t, it shall be worse than dying.