The Works of Aphra Behn Volume Iii Part 11

_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?

G.o.ds! 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?

_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_.

_Friend_. There stands the Traitor, with a guilty Look, That Traitor, who the easier to deceive me, Betray'd my Sister; yet till I came and saw The Perjury, I could not give a Faith to't.

By Heaven, _Diana_ loves him, nay, dotes on him, I find it in her Eyes; all languishing, They feed the Fire in his: arm'd with a double Rage, I know I shall go through with my Revenge.

Sir _Tim_. Fair Maid--

_Phil_. How do you know that, Sir?

Sir _Tim_. I see y'are fair, and I guess you're a Maid.

_Phil_. Your Guess is better than your Eye-sight, Sir.

Sir _Tim_. Whate'er you are, by Fortune, I wish you would permit me to love you with all your Faults.

_Phil_. You? Pray who are you?

Sir _Tim_. A Man, a Gentleman--and more, a Knight too, by Fortune.

_Phil_. Then 'twas not by Merit, Sir--But how shall I know you are either of these?

Sir _Tim_. That I'm a Man, the Effects of my vigorous Flame shall prove --a Gentleman, my Coat of Arms shall testify; and I have the King's Patent for my t.i.tle.

_Phil_. For the first you may thank your Youth, for the next your Father, and the last your Money.

Sir _Tim_. By Fortune, I love thee for thy Pertness.

_Phil_. Is it possible you can love at all?

Sir _Tim_. As much as I dare.

_Phil_. How do you mean?

Sir _Tim_. Not to be laught at; 'tis not the Mode to love much; A Platonick Fop I have heard of, but this is an Age of sheer Enjoyment, and little Love goes to that; we have found it incommode, and loss of time, to make long Addresses.

_Enter_ Celinda _like a Boy_.