And use thee with Contempt and Scorn?--tell me.

_Page_. How scorn, Sir!

_Bel_. Or she was angry--call'd me perjur'd Villain,
False, and forsworn--nay, tell me truth.

_Page_. How, Sir?

_Bel_. Thou dost delay me--say she did, and please me.

_Page_. Sir!

_Bel_. Again--tell me, what answer, Rascal, did she send me?

_Page_. You have it, Sir, there in the Table-Book.

_Bel_. Oh, I am mad, and know not what I do.
--Prithee forgive me, Boy--take breath, my Soul,
Before thou do'st begin; for this--perhaps, may be
So cruel kind,
To leave thee none when thou hast ended it.
[_Opens it, and reads_.

LETTER.

_I have took in the Poison which you sent, in those few fatal
Words, "Forgive me, my_ Celinda, _I am married"--'Twas
thus you said--And I have only Life left to return, "Forgive
me my sweet_ Bellmour, _I am dead_." CELINDA.