Enter Willmore and Sebast. Ang. turns and walks away.
Will. How now, turn’d Shadow?
Fly when I pursue, and follow when I fly!
Stay gentle Shadow of my Dove, [Sings.
And tell me e’er I go,
Whether the Substance may not prove
A fleeting Thing like you.
There’s a soft kind Look remaining yet. [As she turns she looks on him.
Ang. Well, Sir, you may be gay; all Happiness, all Joys pursue you still, Fortune’s your Slave, and gives you every hour choice of new Hearts and Beauties, till you are cloy’d with the repeated Bliss, which others vainly languish for—But know, false Man, that I shall be reveng’d. [Turns away in a Rage.
Will. So, ’gad, there are of those faint-hearted Lovers, whom such a sharp Lesson next their Hearts would make as impotent as Fourscore—pox o’ this whining—my Bus’ness is to laugh and love—a pox on’t; I hate your sullen Lover, a Man shall lose as much time to put you in Humour now, as would serve to gain a new Woman.
Ang. I scorn to cool that Fire I cannot raise, Or do the Drudgery of your virtuous Mistress.