I hear thy charming Voice, my Fair,
And see, bright Nymph, thy Swain is here;
Who his Devotions had much earlier paid,
But that a Lamb of thine was stray’d;
And I the little Wanderer have brought,
That with one angry Look from thy fair Eyes,
Thou may’st the little Fugitive chastise,
Too great a Punishment for any Fault.
Come, Galatea, haste away,
The Sun is up and will not stay,
And oh how very short’s a Lover’s Day! [Dance.
King. How likes Florella this?
Flor. Sir, all Delight’s so banish’d from my Soul, I’ve lost the Taste of every single Joy.
Abd. God’s! this is fine! Give me your Art of Flattery,
Or something more of this, will ruin me—
Tho I’ve resolv’d her Death, yet whilst she’s mine,
I would not have her blown by Summer Flies.
Phil. Mark how he snarls upon the King! The Cur will bite anon.
Abd. Come, my Florella, is’t not Bed-time, Love?
Flor. I’ll wait upon you, Sir. [Going out.
Phil. The Moor has ta’en away, we may depart.
Abd. What has he ta’en away? [Turns about.
Phil. The fine gay play-thing, that made us all so merry.