I see a yielding in thy charming Eyes;
The Blushes on thy Face, thy trembling Arms,
Thy panting Breast, and short-breath’d Sighs confess,
Thou wo’t be mine, in spite of all thy Art.
La Nu. What need you urge my Tongue then to repeat
What from my Eyes you can so well interpret?
—Or if it must—dispose me as you please—
Will. Heaven, I thank thee! [Rises with Joy.
Who wou’d not plough an Age in Winter Seas,
Or wade full seven long Years in ruder Camps,