She wou’d have spoke, but Shame deny’d,
And bad her first consult her Pride;
But soon she found that Aid was gone,
For Love, alas, had left her none.
Oh, how she burns, but ‘tis too late,
For in his Eyes she reads her Fate.
Cel. Oh, how numerous are her Charms —How shall I pay this generous Condescension? Fair lovely Maid—
Dia. Why do you flatter, Sir?
Cel. To say you’re lovely, by your self I do not,
I’m young, and have not much convers’d with Beauty:
Yet I’ll esteem my Judgment, since it knows
Where my Devotions shou’d be justly paid.
—But, Madam, may I not yet expect
To hear the Story, you so lately promis’d me?
Dia. I owe much to your Goodness, Sir—but—
Cel. I am too young, you think, to hear a Secret; Can I want Sense to pity your Misfortunes, Or Passion to incite me to revenge ‘em?
Dia. Oh, would he were in earnest!
Cel. She’s fond of me, and I must blow that flame,
Do any thing to make her hate my Bellmour. [Aside.
—But, Madam, I’m impatient for your Story,
That after that, you may expect my Service.
Dia. The Treatment you this night have given a distressed Maid, enough obliges me; nor need I tell you, I’m nobly born; something about my Dress, my Looks and Mien, will doubtless do me reason.
Cel. Sufficiently—