_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_. _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. _Enter_ Page _with a Table-Book_. _Bel_. What’s this? _Page_. The Answer of a Letter, Sir, you sent the divine _Celinda_; for so it was directed. _Bel_.--Hah--_Celinda_--in my Croud of Thoughts I had forgot I sent--come nearer, Boy-- What did she say to thee?--Did she not smile? And use thee with Contempt and Scorn?--tell me. _Page_. How scorn, Sir! _Bel_. Or she was angry--call’d me perjur’d Villain, False, and forsworn--nay, tell me truth. _Page_. How, Sir? _Bel_. Thou dost delay me--say she did, and please me. _Page_. Sir! _Bel_. Again--tell me, what answer, Rascal, did she send me? _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?