That take away my Rest.

_Bel_. To morrow! You must then marry--Oh fatal Word!
Another! a Beast, a Fool, that knows not how to value you.

_Cel_. Is't possible my Fate shou'd be so near?

_Nur_. Nay, then dispose of your self, I say, and leave dissembling;
'tis high time.

_Bel_. This Night the Letter came, the dreadful News
Of thy being married, and to morrow too.
Oh, answer me, or I shall die with Fear.

_Cel_. I must confess it, Sir, without a blush,
(For 'tis no Sin to love) that I cou'd wish--
Heaven and my Father were inclin'd my way:
But I am all Obedience to their Wills.

_Bel_. That Sigh was kind,
But e'er to morrow this time,
You'll want this pitying Sense, and feel no Pantings,
But those which Joys and Pleasures do create.

_Cel_. Alas, Sir! what is't you'd have me do?

_Bel_. Why--I wou'd have you love, and after that
You need not be instructed what to do.
Give me your Faith, give me your solemn Vow
To be my Wife, and I shall be at Peace.