Qu. To me?—it cannot be—to me, sweet Moor?—
No, no, it cannot—prithee smile upon me—
Smile, whilst a thousand Cupids shall descend
And call thee Jove, and wait upon thy Smiles,
Deck thy smooth Brow with Flowers;
Whilst in my Eyes, needing no other Glass,
Thou shalt behold and wonder at thy Beauty.
Abd. Away, away, be gone—
Qu. Where hast thou learnt this Language, that can say But those rude Words—Away, away, be gone? Am I grown ugly now?
Abd. Ugly as Hell—
Qu. Didst thou not love me once, and swore that Heav’n Dwelt in my Face and Eyes?
Abd. Thy Face and Eyes!—Baud, fetch me here a Glass,
[To Elvira.
And thou shalt see the Balls of both those Eyes
Burning with Fire of Lust:
That Blood that dances in thy Cheeks so hot,
That have not I to cool it
Made an Extraction even of my Soul,
Decay’d my Youth, only to feed thy Lust?
And wou’dst thou still pursue me to my Grave?
Qu. All this to me, my Abdelazer?
Abd. I cannot ride through the Castilian Streets,
But thousand Eyes throw killing Looks at me,
And cry—That’s he that does abuse our King—
There goes the Minion of the Spanish Queen,
Who, on the lazy Pleasures of his Love,
Spends the Revenues of the King of Spain—
This many-headed Beast your Lust has arm’d.
Qu. How dare you, Sir, upbraid me with my Love?
Abd. I will not answer thee, nor hear thee speak.