Sem. I know not, Madam, but ‘tis wondrous pleasant.
Cleo. How much more charming are the Works of Nature
Than the Productions of laborious Art?
Securely here the wearied Shepherd sleeps,
Guiltless of any fear, but the disdain
His cruel Fair procures him.
How many Tales the Echoes of these Woods
Cou’d tell of Lovers, if they would betray,
That steal delightful hours beneath their Shades!
Sem. You’d rather hear ‘em echo back the sound Of Horns and Dogs, or the fierce noise of War.
Cleo. You charge me with the faults of Education,
That cozening Form that veils the Face of Nature,
But does not see what’s hid within, Semiris:
I have a Heart all soft as thine, all Woman,
Apt to melt down at every tender Object.
—Oh, Semiris! there’s a strange change within me.
Sem. How, Madam!
Cleo. I would thou knew’st it;
Till now I durst do any thing—but fear,
Yet now I tremble with the thoughts of telling thee
What none but thou must know—I am in love.
Sem. Why do you blush, my Princess? ‘tis no sin; But, Madam, who’s the happy glorious Object?
Cleo. Why, canst thou not guess then?
Sem. How is it possible I should?
Cleo. Oh Gods! not guess the Man! Or, rather think some God! Dull stupid Maid, Hast thou not heard of something more than mortal! ’.wixt Human and Divine! our Country’s Genius, Our young God of War! not heard of him!