_Cel_. Oh Heavens! Mr. _Bellmour_ at this late Hour in my Chamber!

_Bel_. Yes, Madam; but will approach no nearer till you permit me;
And sure you know my Soul too well to fear.

_Cel_. I do, Sir, and you may approach yet nearer,
And let me know your Business.

_Bel_. Love is my bus'ness, that of all the World;
Only my Flame as much surmounts the rest,
As is the Object's Beauty I adore.

_Cel_. If this be all, to tell me of your Love,
To morrow might have done as well.

_Bel_. Oh, no, to morrow would have been too late,
Too late to make returns to all my Pain.
--What disagreeing thing offends your Eyes?
I've no Deformity about my Person;
I'm young, and have a Fortune great as any
That do pretend to serve you;
And yet I find my Interest in your Heart,
Below those happy ones that are my Rivals.
Nay, every Fool that can but plead his Title,
And the poor Interest that a Parent gives him,
Can merit more than I.
--What else, my lovely Maid, can give a freedom
To that same talking, idle, knighted Fop?

_Cel_. Oh, if I am so wretched to be his,