Ther. If all my Sighs, if Eyes still fix’d on hers With Languishment and Passion, will inform her, I’ll let her know my Flame, or perish in th’ Attempt.
Lys. Dare you declare it as you now appear?
And can you hope, that under the Degree
Of what indeed you are, she will permit it?
And your Discovery is your certain ruin.
Ther. Thy Counsel, dear Lysander, comes too late, She’s in the Grove, where now I must attend her, And see where she approaches—
Enter Cleomena, Semiris.
Cleo. The Stranger, say you, grown of late so pensive!
—I must enquire the Cause—what if it shou’d be Love?
And that too not for me! hah, my Semiris!
That Thought has given me Pains I never felt;
—Gods! why comes he not? I grow impatient now;
—Say, didst thou bid him wait me in the Grove?
Sem. Madam, I spoke to him my self—
Cleo. And told him I wou’d speak with him?
Sem. As you commanded me, I said.
Cleo. It seems he values my Commands but little, Who is so slow in his Obedience: —Where found you him?
Sem. I’th’ Antick Gallery, Madam.