at all in Tears? why, who
the Devil would love in earnest?
Come, come, make me Judge between you.

_Mar._ You'll soon decide it then, my Heart's _Clarinda's_; But my
forc'd Vows are given to another.

_Alon._ Vows! dost think the Gods regard the Vows of Lovers? they are
things made in necessity, and ought not to be kept, nor punish'd when
broken; if they were-- Heaven have mercy on me poor Sinner.

Enter _Ambrosio_.

_Mar._ My Father return'd!
[Bows, and goes to him, and then leads _Alonzo_ to him.
Sir, this is the gallant Man that was design'd to be your Son-in-Law.

_Amb._ And that you were not so, Sir, was my misfortune only.

_Alon._ I am glad to find it no slight to my Person,
Or unknown Quality that depriv'd me of that Honour.

_Mar._ To convince you of that, _Alonzo_, I know my Father will bestow
this other Sister on you; more fair and young, and equally as rich.
[_Ambrosio_ calls _Marcel_ aside.

_Alon._ How, his Sister! Fool that I was, I could not guess at this; and
now have I been lying and swearing all this while how much I lov'd her.
Well, take one time with another, a Man falls into more Danger by this
amorous Humour, than he gets good turns by it.

_Mar._ Pardon me, Sir, I knew not you had design'd her elsewhere-- Dear
_Alonzo_, my Father--

_Alon._ Ay, Sir, I am much oblig'd to him. Oh Pox, would I were well
with _Euphemia_.

_Mar._ I protest I could wish--

_Alon._ Ay, so could I, Sir, that you had made a better Judgment of my
Humour: All must out, I have no other way to avoid this Compliment else.
Why look ye, _Marcel_-- Your Sister is-- Pox, I am ill at Dissimulation,
and therefore in plain Terms, I am to be married this very Evening to
another.

_Mar._ This was happy, and has sav'd me an Excuse.
[Aside.
But are you in earnest, How is it possible, being so lately come into
_Madrid_?

_Alon._ Destiny, Destiny, _Marcel_, which there was no avoiding, tho I
mist of _Hippolyta_.

_Mar._ Who is it, prithee?

_Alon._ A Woman I hope, of which indeed I would have been better
assur'd; but she was wilful. She's call'd _Euphemia._

_Mar._ Our next Neighbour, the Daughter of old _Carlo_.

_Alon._ The same.

_Mar._ Thou art happy to make so good a Progress in so short a time, but
I am--

_Alon._ Not so miserable as you believe. Come, come, you shall marry
_Clarinda_.

_Mar._ 'Tis impossible.

_Alon._ Where's the hindrance?

_Mar._ Her want of Fortune; that'