_Cel_. Not yet, my sullen Heart!

_Dia_. Who's here? one wounded--alas--

_Cel_. 'Tis not so lucky--but who art thou
That dost with so much pity ask?

_Dia_. He seems a Gentleman--handsome and young-- [_Aside_.
Pray ask no Questions, Sir; but if you are what you seem,
Give a Protection to an unhappy Maid.
--Do not reply, but let us haste away.

_Cel_. Hah--What do I hear! sure, 'tis _Diana_.
--Madam, with haste, and joy, I'll serve you.
--I'll carry her to my own Lodgings.
Fortune, in this, has done my Sufferings right,
My Rival's in my Power, upon her Wedding-Night. [_Aside_.

[_Exeunt_.

_Enter_ Bellmour, _Sir_ Tim. Sham, _and_ Sharp.

Sir _Tim_. Lord, Lord, that you should not know your Friend and humble
Servant, _Tim. Tawdrey_--But thou look'st as if thou hadst not been
a-bed yet.

_Bel_. No more I have.

Sir _Tim_. Nay, then thou losest precious time, I'll not detain thee.
[_Offers to go_.