Abd. Gods!
Because I want the art to tell my Story
In that soft way, which those can do whose Business
Is to be still so idly employ’d,
I must be silent and endure my Pain,
Which Heaven ne’er gave me so much lameness for.
Love in my Soul is not that gentle thing
It is in other Breasts; instead of Calms,
It ruffles mine into uneasy Storms.
—I wou’d not love, if I cou’d help it, Madam;
But since ‘tis not to be resisted here—
You must permit it to approach your Ear.
Leon. Not when I cannot hear it, Sir, with Honour.
Abd. With Honour!
Nay, I can talk in the Defence of that:
By all that’s sacred, ‘tis a Flame as virtuous,
As every Thought inhabits your fair Soul,
And it shall learn to be as gentle too;
—For I must merit you—
Leon. I will not hear this Language; merit me!
Abd. Yes—why not?
You’re but the Daughter of the King of Spain,
And I am Heir to great Abdela, Madam;
I can command this Kingdom you possess,
(Of which my Passion only made you Queen)
And re-assume that which your Father took
From mine—a Crown as bright as that of Spain.
Leon. You said you wou’d be gentle—
Abd. I will; this sullen Heart shall learn to bow,
And keep it self within the Bounds of Love;
Its Language I’ll deliver out in Sighs,
Soft as the Whispers of a yielding Virgin.
I cou’d transform my Soul to any Shape;
Nay, I could even teach my Eyes the Art
To change their natural Fierceness into Smiles;
—What is’t I wou’d not do to gain that Heart!
Leon. Which never can be yours! that and my Vows,
Are to Alonzo given; which he lays claim to
By the most sacred Ties, Love and Obedience;
All Spain esteems him worthy of that Love.
Abd. More worthy it than I! it was a Woman,
A nice, vain, peevish Creature that pronounc’d it;
Had it been Man, ‘t had been his last Transgression.
—His Birth! his glorious Actions! are they like mine?
Leon. Perhaps his Birth wants those Advantages, Which Nature has laid out in Beauty on his Person.