_Lord_. Why, Nephew _Charles_--has your Breeding at the Academy
instructed your Heels in no Motion?

_Char_. My Lord, I'll make one.

_Phil_. And I another, for Joy that my Brother's made happy in so fair
a Bride.

_Bel_. Hell take your Ignorance, for thinking I am happy,--
Wou'd Heaven wou'd strike me dead,
That by the loss of a poor wretched Life
I might preserve my Soul--But Oh, my Error!
That has already damn'd it self, when it consented
To break a Sacred Vow, and Marry here.

_Lord_. Come, come, begin, begin, Musick to your Office.

[_Soft Musick_.

_Bel_. Why does not this hard Heart, this stubborn Fugitive,
Break with this Load of Griefs? but like ill Spirits
It promis'd fair, till it had drawn me in,
And then betray'd me to Damnation.

_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