. A Baudy-house! What, already!
This is the very quintessence of Leudness.
--Why, I thought that I was wicked, but, by Fortune,
This dashes mine quite out of Countenance.

_Bel_. Oh, thou'rt a puny Sinner!--I'll teach thee Arts (so rare) of Sin,
the least of them shall damn thee.

Sir _Tim_. By Fortune, _Frank_, I do not like these Arts.

_Bel_. Then thou'rt a Fool--I'll teach thee to be rich too.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, that I like.

_Bel_. Look here, my Boys!
[_Hold up his Writings, which he takes out of his Pockets_.
The Writings of 3000 pounds a Year:
--All this I got by Perjury.

Sir _Tim_. By Fortune, a thriving Sin.

_Bel_. And we will live in Sin while this holds out.
_And then to my cold Home--Come let's be gone:
Oh, that I ne'er might see the rising Sun_.

[_Exeunt_.

ACT IV.

SCENE I. Celinda's _Chamber_.

_Discovers_ Celinda _as before sitting in a Chair_,
Diana _by her in another, who sings_.

SONG.

I.

Celinda, _who did Love disdain,
For whom had languished many a Swain,
Leading her bleating Flocks to drink,
She spy'd upon the River's brink
A Youth, whose Eyes did well declare
How much he lov'd, but lov'd not her_.

II.

_At first she laugh'd, but gaz'd the while,
And soon it lessen'd to a Smile;
Thence to surprize and wonder came,
Her Breast to heave, her Heart to flame;
Then cry'd she out, Ah, now I prove
Thou art a God, Almighty Love_.

III.

_She wou'd have spoke, but Shame deny'd,
And bad her first consult her Pride;
But soon she found that Aid was gone,
For Love, alas, had left her none.
Oh, how she burns, but 'tis too late,
For in his Eyes she reads her Fate_.

_Cel_. Oh, how numerous are her Charms
--How shall I pay this generous Condescension?
Fair lovely Maid--

_Dia_. Why do you flatter, Sir?

_Cel_. To say you're lovely, by your self I do not,
I'm young, and have not much convers'd with Beauty:
Yet I'll esteem my Judgment, since it knows
Where my Devotions shou'd be justly paid.
--But, Madam, may I not yet expect
To hear the Story, you so lately promis'd me?

_Dia_. I owe much to your Goodness, Sir--but--

_Cel_. I am too young, you think, to hear a Secret;
Can I want Sense to pity your Misfortunes,
Or Passion to incite me to revenge 'em?

_Dia_. Oh, would he were in earnest!

_Cel_. She's fond of me, and I must blow that flame,
Do any thing to make