us the very Day after his Marriage.

Trusty. I shall be glad to see you all dispos'd of well; but I was half afraid, your Brother would have married Mrs. Celinda Friendlove, to whom he made notable Love in Yorkshire I thought: not but she's a fine Lady; but her Fortune is below that of my young Master's, as much as my Lady Diana's is above his—But see, they come; let us retire, to give 'em leave to talk alone.

[Exeunt.

Enter Lord Plotwell, and Bellmour.

Lord. And well, Frank, how dost thou find thy self inclin'd? thou should'st begin to think of something more than Books. Do'st thou not wish to know the Joys that are to be found in a Woman, Frank? I well remember at thy Age I fancy'd a thousand fine things of that kind.

Bel. Ay, my Lord, a thousand more perhaps than are to be found.

Lord. Not so; but I confess, Frank, unless the Lady be fair, and there be some Love too, 'tis not altogether so well; therefore I, who am still busy for thy good, have fix'd upon a Lady—

Bel. Ha!—

Lord. What, dost start? Nay, I'll warrant thee she'll please; A Lady rich, and fair, and nobly born, and thou shalt marry her, Frank.

Bel. Marry her, my Lord—

Lord. Why, yes, marry her—I hope you are none of the fashionable Fops, that are always in Mutiny against Marriage, who never think themselves very witty, but when they rail against Heaven and a Wife— But, Frank, I have found better Principles in thee, and thou hast the Reputation of a sober young Gentleman; thou art, besides, a Man of great Fortune, Frank.

Bel. And therefore, Sir, ought the less to be a Slave.

Lord. But, Frank, we are made for one another; and ought, by the Laws of God, to communicate our Blessings.

Bel. Sir, there are Men enough, fitter much than I, to obey those Laws; nor do I think them made for every one.

Lord. But, Frank, you do not know what a Wife I have provided for you.

Bel. 'Tis enough I know she's a Woman, Sir.

Lord. A Woman! why, what should she be else?

Bel. An Angel, Sir, e'er she can be my Wife.

Lord. In good time: but this is a Mortal, Sir—and must serve your turn—but, Frank, she is the finest Mortal—

Bel. I humbly beg your Pardon, if I tell you,
That had she Beauty such as Heav'n ne'er made,
Nor meant again t'inrich a Woman with,
It cou'd not take my Heart.

Lord. But, Sir, perhaps you do not guess the Lady.

Bel. Or cou'd I, Sir, it cou'd not change my Nature.

Lord. But, Sir, suppose it be my Niece Diana.

Bel. How, Sir, the fair Diana!

Lord. I thought thou'dst come about again; What think you now of Woman-kind, and Wedlock?

Bel. As I did before, my Lord.

Lord. What, thou canst not think I am in earnest; I confess, Frank, she is above thee in point of Fortune, she being my only Heir—but suppose 'tis she.

Bel. Oh, I'm undone!—Sir, I dare not suppose so greatly in favour of my self.

Lord. But, Frank, you must needs suppose—

Bel. Oh, I am ruin'd, lost, for ever lost.

Lord. What do you mean, Sir?

Bel. I mean, I cannot marry fair Diana.

Lord. Death! how's this?

Bel. She is a thing above my humble wishes—

Lord. Is that all? Take you no care for that; for she loves you already, and I have resolv'd it, which is better yet.

Bel. Love me, Sir! I know she cannot, And Heav'n forbid that I should injure her.

Lord. Sir, this is a Put-off: resolve quickly, or I'll compel you.

Bel. You wou'd not use Extremity; What is the Forfeit of my Disobedience?

Lord. The loss of all your Fortune, If you refuse the Wife I have provided— Especially a handsom Lady, as she is, Frank.

Bel. Oh me, unhappy! What cursed Laws provided this Severity?

Lord. Even those of your Father's Disposal, who seeing so many Examples in this leud Age, of the ruin of whole Families by imprudent Marriages, provided otherwise for you.

Bel. But, Sir, admit Diana be inclin'd, And I (by my unhappy Stars so curs'd) Should be unable to accept the Honour.

Lord. How, Sir! admit!—I can no more admit, Than you can suppose—therefore give me your final Answer.

Bel. Sir, can you think a Blessing e'er can fall Upon that Pair, whom Interest joins, not Love?

Lord. Why, what's in Diana, that you shou'd not love her?

Bel. I must confess she has a thousand Virtues,
The least of which wou'd bless another Man;
But, Sir, I hope, if I am so unhappy
As not to love that Lady, you will pardon me.

Lord. Indeed, Sir, but I will not; love me this Lady, and marry me this Lady, or I will teach you what it is to refuse such a Lady.

Bel. Sir, 'tis not in my power to obey you.

Lord. How! not in your pow'r?

Bel. No, Sir, I see my fatal Ruin in your Eyes, And know too well your Force, and my own Misery. —But, Sir—when I shall tell you who I've married—

Lord. Who you've married;—By all that's sacred, if that be true, thou art undone for ever.

Bel. O hear me, Sir! I came with Hopes to have found you merciful.

Lord. Expect none from me; no, thou shalt not have So much of thy Estate, as will afford thee Bread: By Heav'n, thou shalt not.

Bel. Oh, pity me, my Lord, pity my Youth;
It is no Beggar, nor one basely born,
That I have given my Heart to, but a Maid,
Whose Birth, whose Beauty, and whose Education
Merits the best of Men.

Lord. Very fine! where is the Priest that durst dispose of you without my Order? Sirrah, you are my Slave—at least your whole Estate is at my mercy—and besides, I'll charge you with an Action of 5000 pounds. For your ten Years Maintenance: Do you know that this in my power too?

Bel. Yes, Sir, and dread your Anger worse than Death.

Lord. Oh Villain! thus to dash my Expectation!

Bel. Sir, on my bended Knees, thus low I fall To beg your mercy.

Lord. Yes, Sir, I will have mercy; I'll give you Lodging—but in a Dungeon, Sir, Where you shall ask your Food of Passers by.

Bel. All this, I know, you have the Pow'r to do;
But, Sir, were I thus cruel, this hard Usage
Would give me Cause to execute it.
I wear a Sword, and I dare right my self;
And Heaven wou'd pardon it, if I should kill you:
But Heav'n forbid I shou'd correct that Law,
Which gives you Power, and orders me Obedience.

Lord. Very well, Sir, I shall tame that Courage, and punish that Harlot, whoe'er she be, that has seduc'd ye.

Bel. How, Harlot, Sir!—Death, such another