Dia. Pray hear me, Sir—
Cel. Oh, you will tell me he was kind—
Yes, yes—oh God—were not his balmy Kisses
Sweeter than Incense offer’d up to Heaven?
Did not his Arms, softer and whiter far
Than those of Jove’s transform’d to Wings of Swans,
Greedily clasp thee round?—Oh, quickly speak,
Whilst thy fair rising Bosom met with his;
And then—Oh—then—
Dia. Alas, Sir! What’s the matter?—sit down a while.
Cel. Now—I am well—pardon me, lovely Creature,
If I betray a Passion, I’m too young
To’ve learnt the Art of hiding;
—I cannot hear you say that he was kind.
Dia. Kind! yes, as Blasts to Flow’rs, or early Fruit;
All gay I met him full of youthful Heat:
But like a Damp, he dasht my kindled Flame,
And all his Reason was—he lov’d another,
A Maid he call’d Celinda.
Cel. Oh blessed Man!
Dia. How, Sir?
Cel. To leave thee free, to leave thee yet a Virgin.
Dia. Yes, I have vow’d he never shall possess me.
Cel. Oh, how you bless me—but you still are married, And whilst you are so—I must languish—