Chri. You mistake me.

Dor. Remit my ignorance, and let me read
The mystery of thy language in thy looks,
In which are lively characters of love,
Writ in the polish'd tablets of thy cheeks,
Which seem to vary colours like the clouds

When they presage a storm; and those bright eyes,
Dart unaccustom'd beams, which shine as anger
Flash'd from their fiery motion.

Chri. You misconstrue

The intention of my looks. I am not angry
Though much distemper'd.

Dor. At what? by whom?

Lives there a creature so extremely bad,

Dares discompose your patience? speak: reveal
The monster to me. Were he fenced with flames,
Or lock'd in bulwarks of congealed ice,
And all the fiends stood sentinels to guard
The passage, I would enforce it to his heart;
Through which, the mounting violence of my rage
Should pierce like lightning.

Chri. I believe,

That, in some trivial quarrel to redeem

My fame, should scandal touch it, you would fight,
Perhaps, to shew your valour; but I have

A task to enjoin you which my fears possess me
You dare not venture to accept.

Dor. By truth,

You wrong my faith and courage to suspect me
Of so extreme a cowardice. Have I stood the heat
Of battles till upon the mountainous piles
Of slaughter'd carcases, the souls which left 'em
Seem'd to ascend to heaven, that your suspicion
Should taint my honour with this base revolt?
This is not noble in you.

Chri. Do not rage.

When you shall hear it, you will then confess
Your confident error.

Dor. My loyalty will not

Permit that strong rebellion in my breast

To doubt the meanest falsehood in a word

Her voice can utter, which should charm the world

To a belief some cherubim has left

Its room in heaven to carol to the earth

Celestial anthems, and I now begin

A form of oath so binding that no law
Or power can dispense with, and I'll seal't
With my best blood. Pray, madam, tell me what
The imposition is you judge so easily
Will stagger my just truth, that I may fly,
On love's light wings, to act it.

Chri. Hear it, then; and do not,

As you respect your oath or love, request
The cause of what I shall command.
Dor. Still suspicious!

My honour be my witness, which no action
Shall violate, I will not.

Chri. Enough; that vow

Cannot but be material; receive it :-
I must no longer love you.

Dor. That's no command; what did

Chri. I must no longer love you;

Leave your affection to me.

Dor. You're very pleasant, lady.

Chrisea?

you say, and command you,

Chri. You'll find me very serious; nay, more;

I love another; and I do enjoin you,

Since 'tis a man you may o'er-rule, to assist me

In my obtaining him, without whose love

I'm resolute to perish!

Dor. Sure I dream,

Or some strange sudden death has changed this frame
To immortality; for, were I flesh,

And should hear this, certain my violent rage
Would pull me to some desp'rate act beyond
The reach of fury; these are words would infect
Rose-colour'd patience, clear and lovely front,
With loathsome leprosy, change flames to tears,
And, with unusual harshness of the sound
Deafen the genius of the world.

Chri. Where's now

The strength of soul you boasted? Does the noise
Of the death-speaking cannon not affright

Your settled resolution, and the voice
Of a weak woman shake your youthful blood
Into an ague? since you so ill bear this,

When you shall hear the man whose love has stol'n
Your interest, you will rage more than unlimited fire
In populous cities.

Dor. Sure 'tis she who speaks:

I do enjoy, yet, sound untainted sense:

Each faculty does, with a peaceful harmony, retain
Its proper organ; yet she did rehearse,

She must no longer love me. Oh! that word
Transforms the soul of quiet into rage,

Above distracted madness. Madam! tell me-
What place is this? for you have led me
Into a subtle labyrinth, where I never
Shall have fruition of my former freedom,
But, like an humble anchorite, that digs

With his own nails his grave, must live confin'd
To the sad maze for ever.

Chri. Sir, you cannot

By most submissive and continued prayers,
Reclaim my affection, which stands fix'd as fate

Upon your friend Vitelli.

Dor. My friend Vitelli!

Chri. Sir, I not use

To jest my life away: Vitelli is

The person to obtain whose precious love
I do conjure you by all ties of honour

To implore your utmost diligence.

Dor. Can I be

So tame o' the sudden? has the feeble spirit
Of some degenerate coward frighted hence
My resolution, which has given a law
To fate itself, that I must now become

The stale to my own ruin? O Chrisea!

Who wert so good, that virtue would have sigh'd
At the unwelcome spectacle, had you
Appear'd but woman in a passion,

Though of the slightest consequence; oh, do not
Abjure that saint-like temper; it will be
A change hereafter burd'nous to your soul,
As sin to one who, all his life-time blest
With peace of conscience, at his dying minute
Falls into mortal enmity with heaven,

Chri. My will guides my determination, and you must In honour act your promise.

Dor. Yes, I will,

Since you can urge it, tho' but two

Things precious to me, and one cruel word
Robs me of both my friend and her. Chrisea,
I have not left another sigh to move,
Nor tear to beg your pity.

Chri. They are but vain :

You may as easily think to kiss the stars
'Cause they shine on you, as recall my vows,
Which I will urge no further, but wish you
Regard your honour. But farewell! I must
Be cruel ere to my own love unjust.

[exit.

Dor. She's gone! What vapour, which the flattering sun Attracts to heaven, as to create a star,

And throw it a fading meteor to the earth,
Has fall'n like me? I am not yet grown ripe
For perfect sorrow; but, as a bubbling brook,
That sports and curls within its flow'ry banks
Till the vast sea devour it, only falling
Into the abyss of mischief; passions surround
My intellectual powers; only my heart,
Like to a rocky island, does advance
Above the foamy violence of the flood

Its unmov'd head: love be my careful guide!
Who sails 'gainst danger both of wind and tide."

The next scene is between Doria and Vitelli.

"Vit. Friend, now we're alone, I safely may Speak my conjecture; I have read your looks, And, in their pensive characters, find secret Strange signs of sadness.

Dor. I am sad, indeed,

When my remembrance tells me I have only

Verbal assurance of your friendship.

Vit. Try me by any attempt, whose danger does surpass

The common path of daring; be't to snatch

A fiery bolt, when it from heaven comes wrapp'd

In sheets of lightning, to afford true proof

Of my affection, and with eager haste,
Such as inspires a husband to enjoy
His spouse's virgin purity, I'll run

To the achievement.

Dor. These are but protests,

Such as be got by ceremony, proceed

Not from intensive zeal; yet I'll experience
The truth of your affection, by a trial,
Of such a noble and affective weight,
Which, if you bravely do support, you'll stand
As some tall pyramid, or column, for
Your own memorial, to tell after-times
The power and strength of friendship.
Vit. Pray, nam't:

An 'twere a burden would oppress the earth,
I'll be the able Atlas to sustain

Heaven on my willing shoulders.
Dor. There is a lady,

In whose each eye sits fire, and on her cheek
Victorious beauty, captive to her smiles,
Dances in lovely triumph; one who emblems
The glory of mortality in each look:
Contracts the orb of lustre to a glance;
Brandishes beams, whose purity dispense
Light more immaculate than the gorgeous east
Wears, when the prostrate Indian does adore
Its rising brightness: yet this wonder doats
On
you, with such inevitable fervour,

That I, in pity of her sufferings, come

T'entreat you love her.

Vit. Whom, my lord?

Dor. You cannot appear so strangely stupid, not to acknow

ledge

Creation's miracle, when I point out

Her very figure; you as well may seem,

When the bleak north does, with congealing blasts,

Bind up the crystal streams in chains of ice,

Not to know winter; ignorant of her,

Who, had she liv'd when superstitious mists

Shaded the world, more groves of gums had flam'd

T'her divinest beauty, than to all

The race of idle deities: 'tis Chrisea,

The fair Chrisea, loves you!

Vit. The fair Chrisea? your lordship's merry.
Dor. Do you slight

What I deliver'd with that unfeign'd zeal

That penitents do their prayers? I say, Chrisea ;
A name whose every accent sweetlier sounds