I'd rather hear thee swear, thou art my Foe,
And like some noble and romantick Maid
With Poniards wou'd my stubborn Heart invade;
And whilst thou dost the faithful Relique tear,
In every Vein thoud'st find _Celinda_ there.

_Dia_. Come, Sir, you must forget _Celinda's_ Charms,
And reap Delights within my circling Arms,
Delights that may your Errors undeceive,
When you find Joys as great as she can give.

_Bel_. What do I hear?--is this the kind Relief
Thou dost allow to my Despair and Grief?
Is this the Comfort that thou dost impart
To my all-wounded, bleeding, dying Heart?
Were I so brutal, cou'd thy Love comply
To serve it self with base Adultery?
For cou'd I love thee, cou'd I love again,
Our Lives wou'd be but one continu'd Sin:
A Sin of that black dye, a Sin so foul,
'Twou'd leave no Hopes of Heav'n for either's Soul.

_Dia_. Dull Man! Dost think a feeble vain Excuse
Shall satisfy me for this Night's abuse?
No, since my Passion thou'st defeated thus,
And robb'd me of my long-wish'd Happiness,
I'll make thee know what a wrong'd Maid can do,
Divided 'twixt her Love and Injuries too.

_Bel_. I dare thy worst;