ord_. Who you've married;--By all that's sacred, if that be true,
thou art undone for ever.

_Bel_. O hear me, Sir!
I came with Hopes to have found you merciful.

_Lord_. Expect none from me; no, thou shalt not have
So much of thy Estate, as will afford thee Bread:
By Heav'n, thou shalt not.

_Bel_. Oh, pity me, my Lord, pity my Youth;
It is no Beggar, nor one basely born,
That I have given my Heart to, but a Maid,
Whose Birth, whose Beauty, and whose Education
Merits the best of Men.

_Lord_. Very fine! where is the Priest that durst dispose of you without
my Order? Sirrah, you are my Slave--at least your whole Estate is at my
mercy--and besides, I'll charge you with an Action of 5000 pounds. For
your ten Years Maintenance: Do you know that this in my power too?

_Bel_. Yes, Sir, and dread your Anger worse than Death.

_Lord_. Oh Villain! thus to dash my Expectation!

_Bel_. Sir, on my bended Knees, thus low I fall
To beg your mercy.

_Lord_. Yes, Sir, I will have mercy;
I'll give you Lodging--but in a Dungeon, Sir,
Where you shall ask your Food of Passers by.

_Bel_. All this, I know, you have the Pow'r to do;
But, Sir, were I thus cruel, this hard Usage
Would give me Cause to execute it.
I wear a Sword, and I dare right my self;
And Heaven wou'd pardon it, if I should kill you:
But Heav'n forbid I shou'd correct that Law,
Which gives you Power, and orders me Obedience.

_Lord_. Very well, Sir, I shall tame that Courage, and punish that
Harlot, whoe'er she be, that has seduc'd ye.

_Bel_. How, Harlot, Sir!--Death, such another Word,
And through all Laws and Reason I will rush,
And reach thy Soul, if mortal like thy Body.
--No, Sir, she's chaste, as are the new-made Vows
I breath'd upon her Lips, when last we parted.

_Lord_. Who waits there?

Enter Trusty and Servants.

--Shall I be murder'd in my own House?
'Tis time you were remov'd--
Go, get an Action of 5000 pounds, enter'd against him,
With Officers to arrest him.

_Trusty_. My Lord, 'tis my young Master _Bellmour_.

_Lord_. Ye all doat upon him, but he's not the Man you take him for.

_Trusty_. How, my Lord! not this Mr. _Bellmour_!

_Lord_. Dogs, obey me.
[_Offers to go_.

_Bel_. Stay, Sir--oh, stay--what will become of me?
'Twere better that my Life were lost, than Fortune--
For that being gone, _Celinda_ must not love me.
--But to die wretchedly--
Poorly in Prison--whilst I can manage this--
Is