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?
Gods! 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?