_Bel_. Gods! Happy!--whilst I am wretched. --Oh, what an Ague chills my shivering Limbs, Turns my hot Rage to softest Love, and Shame! Were I not here to die--here at her Feet, I wou’d not stand the Shock of her Reproaches. --But yet she need not speak, a Look’s sufficient To call up all my Sins to my undoing-- She comes--Oh Heav’n! she comes-- _Enter_ Celinda _and_ Diana. --Like penitent Criminals thus--with my Eyes declin’d, I bow my Head down, for the last sad Blow. [_Stands bow’d_. _Cel_. Sir, in Obedience to your Commands, I’ve brought the Lady. _Dia_. How! The perfidious _Bellmour_! The only Object of my Hate and Scorn. _Bel_. Say on, my angry Deity-- [_Kneels_. Whilst I thus trembling hear my fatal Doom, Like Sinners, conscious ne’er to be forgiven, I dare not lift my guilty Eyes towards Heaven. _Cel_. Can I hear this, and yet retain my Life? _Dia_. Had I but two days since beheld this Youth Thus prostrate at my Feet, I should have thought My self more blest, Than to have been that Deity he calls me. _Enter_ Friendlove. _Friend_. Defend me! The Traitor here! And at _Diana’s_ Feet! The fittest Altar for my Sacrifice! --Turn, turn, from what thou lov’st, and meet my Justice. _Cel_. Oh, hold, my dearest Brother. [Bellmour _rises, and turns about_. _Bel_. Nay, now I’m ready for the welcome Sword, Since my _Celinda’s_ false, and cannot pardon. _Cel_. Oh, do not die with that profane Opinion. _Celinda_ false! or cannot pardon thee! _Dia_. Stay, generous Sir, my Pity has forgiven him. _Bel_. Thou! Why, who art thou--_Diana_? _Dia_. Yes, that _Diana_, Whom, maugre all the Penitence thou shew’st, Can scarce forgive the Injuries thou hast done her. _Bel_. I shew a Penitence for injuring thee! By Heav’n, I never cou’d do one, or other; All that I am is the divine _Celinda’s_. _Friend_. He’s stark mad! [_Aside_. _Bel_. But since she cannot pardon, I can die. [_Offers to fall on his Sword_. _Cel_. Canst thou not credit me? She pardons thee. Live--and enjoy--_Diana_. [_Turns her Face from him_. _Bel_. What art thou, who know’st her Heart so well? Art thou my Rival? the blessed Youth, to whom She has given her Vows?--Live, and enjoy, _Diana_! --Yes, yes, thou art my Rival, and I’ll kill thee. _Cel_. Do, whilst I meet thy Sword. [_Opens her Arms_, Diana _stays him; he lets fall his Sword, and gazes_. _Bel_, Dull--dull Adorer! Not to know my Saint. Oh, how I have profan’d! To what strange Idol Was that I kneel’d, Mistaking it for a Divinity? _Cel_. To your fair Wife _Diana_. _Bel_. Oh cruel Maid! Has Heav’n design’d me any but _Celinda_? _Dia_. Maid! Bless me!--did I then love a Woman? --I am pleas’d thou should’st renounce me; make it good, And set me free from Fetters which I hate. _Bel_. If all our Laws can do’t, I will--for here Ends all my Claim. [_To_ Celinda.