Sem. What mean you, Madam?
Cleo. But thou, poor Ghost— Instead of hasting me to my Revenge, Endeavour’st to touch me with Compassion.
Sem. Madam, who is’t you follow thus and speak to?
Cleo. Thersander, why do’st rob me of that Face? Is’t to disarm me of my Indignation?
Sem. Oh, Madam, what do you do?
Cleo. Ha! dost thou see nothing?
Sem. Not any thing.
Cleo. Yonder’s the Scythian with _Clemanthis’. Face, Or else Clemanthis with Thersander’s Wound.
Sem. Compose your Thoughts, dear Madam, ‘twas a Dream, An idle Dream, born from a troubled Fancy. —How was it, Madam?
Cleo. Methought I saw Clemanthis,
As when he was most charming to my Soul,
But pale and languishing, having a Wound
Like that I gave his Murderer
To which with one of’s Hands he seem’d to point;
The other stretching out with passionate Actions,
And gazing on me,—thus methought he spoke:
—See how you recompense my faithful Sufferings,
—See the performance of your Promises;
Look on this Wound which you have given my Heart,
That Heart that still ador’d you:
And yet you’re not content with all these Cruelties,
Though even in your Anger and my Death,
I still continue faithful and submissive.
—Thus spoke the lovely Phantom.