If in her Death such certain Wounds she give,
What Mischiefs she would do, if she should live!
Yet she must live, and live that I may prove
Whether this strange Disorder here be Love. [[To his heart.]
Divine, divinest Maid. [Kneels.
Olin. Come nearer, Sir, you’ll do a Lady no good at that Distance. Speak to her, Sir. [He rises and comes to her, gazing still.
Alon. I know not what to say,
I am unus’d to this soft kind of Language:
But if there be a Charm in Words, and such
As may conjure her to return again;