Am. What now, Alcander?
Alcan. As ‘twas, Aminta.
Am. How’s that?
Alcan. Such a distracted Lover as you left me.
Am. Such as I found you too, I fear, Alcander.
Alcan. Ah, Madam, do not wrong me so;
Till now I never knew the joys and sorrows
That do attend a Soul in love like mine:
My Passion only fits the Object now;
I hate to tell you so, ‘tis a poor low means
To gain a Mistress by, of so much wit:
Aminta, you’re above that common rate
Of being won.
Mean Beauties should be flatter’d into praise,
Whilst you need only Sighs from every Lover,
To tell you who you conquer, and not how,
Nor to instruct you what attracts you have.
Am. This will not serve to convince me, But you have lov’d before.
Alcan. And will you never quit that error, Madam?
Am. ‘Tis what I’ve reason to believe, Alcander,
And you can give me none for loving me:
I’m much unlike Lucinda whom you sigh’d for,
I’m not so coy, nor so reserv’d as she;
Nor so designing as Florana your next Saint,
Who starv’d you up with hope, till you grew weary;
And then Ardelia did restore that loss,
The little soft Ardelia, kind and fair too.
Alcan. You think you’re wondrous witty now, Aminta, But hang me if you be.