_Cel_. Have you consider'd, Sir, your own Condition?
'Tis in your Uncle's Power to take your Fortune,
If in your Choice you disobey his Will.
--And, Sir, you know that mine is much below you.

_Bel_. Oh, I shall calm his Rage,
By urging so much Reason as thy Beauty,
And my own Flame, on which my Life depends.
--He now has kindly sent for me to _London_,
I fear his Bus'ness--
Yet if you'll yield to marry me,
We'll keep it secret, till our kinder Stars
Have made provision for the blest Discovery.
Come, give me your Vows, or we must part for ever.

_Cel_. Part! Oh, 'tis a fatal Word!
I will do any thing to save that Life,
To which my own so nearly is ally'd.

_Enter_ Friendlove.

_Friend_. So, forward Sister!

_Bel_. Ha, _Friendlove!_

_Friend_. Was it so kindly done, to gain my Sister
Without my knowledge?

_Bel_. Ah, Friend! 'Twas from her self alone