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Bell. You mistake, Madam; I come not to beg Pardon, but to take my leave: Yes, ungrateful Woman, but one last look, and then we part, never to behold each ether more; let cringing Fools and base born Slaves, continue their Officiousness to thole who neglect 'em: A brave Man scorns it.
Lucin. You have free Liberty to depart, and will leave no aking Hearts behind you.
Bell. 'Tis false, I know my Resolution vexes you, how'ere you'd strive to Conceal it. There is never a Dissembling ill-natur'd Woman of you all, but is vext at the loss of a Lover, tho' 'tis one she hates; all are necessary for your Vanity, and your Pride, though but some are pickt for your Pleasures. But by Heaven, I scorn the Office, nor will be ty'd like a Slave to the Chariot, while others ride in it in Triumph.
Luc. Speak softly.
Bell. Would I could speak louder yet, that Heaven and Earth might witness to your Perjury. Yes, Lucinda, when I am again your Fool, may all the Town Laugh at me, as well as you: May I be Hooted and Pointed at for a Monster, and which would be the greatest, greatest Plague, may you Marry me, and bring forth a Bastard the next Day.
Lucin. In return to your obliging Oath, hear mine. If ever I Pardon your Ill-manner'd Outragious Carriage to Day, may I be the most Wretched, and most Infamous of Women; may all the Villanous Slanders of thy Tongue be believ'd of me; and for my Eternal Perdition, may my Ill Fate condemn me to such a Brute, as thee for my Husband.
Bell. Agreed: And therefore that I may preserve nothing which might give me the least feint remembrance of you—here, take back your Picture—this representation in little of so Faithless an Original———
How beautiful it looks! Ah! Lucinda, Lucinda, were but thy Soul Celestial as its Frame—but that is false, a Course Deceitful dawbing, no real, but a Painted Joy, like this.
Lucin. Ha, ha, ha.
Bell. Then here is another Encouragement—the Only one indeed, that I have under your Hand—here 'tis—
