Page. You have it, Sir, there in the Table-Book.
Bel. Oh, I am mad, and know not what I do. —Prithee forgive me, Boy—take breath, my Soul, Before thou do’st begin; for this—perhaps, may be So cruel kind, To leave thee none when thou hast ended it. [Opens it, and reads.
LETTER.
I have took in the Poison which you sent, in those few fatal Words, “Forgive me, my Celinda, I am married”—’Twas thus you said—And I have only Life left to return, “Forgive me my sweet Bellmour, I am dead.” CELINDA.
Can I hear this, and live?—I am a Villian!
In my Creation destin’d for all Mischief,
—To commit Rapes, and Murders, to break Vows,
As fast as Fools do Jests.
Come hither, Boy—
And said the Lady nothing to thee?
Page. Yes, e’er she read the Letter, ask’d your Health, And Joy dispers’d it self in Blushes through her Cheeks.
Bel. Her Beauty makes the very Boy adore it.
Page. And having read it, She drew her Tablets from her Pocket, And trembling, writ what I have brought you, Sir.
Bel. Though I before had loaded up my Soul
With Sins, that wou’d have weigh’d down any other,
Yet this one more it bears, this Sin of Murder;
And holds out still—What have I more to do,
But being plung’d in Blood, to wade it through?
Enter Friendlove in Masquerade. A Jigg.