—My God! how soon extravagant I grew,
And told so oft the story of my Passion,
That she grew weary of the repeated Tale,
And punish’d my presumption with a strange neglect. Weeps.
Fred. How, my good Philibert?
Clo. Would suffer me to see her Face no more.
Fred. That was pity; without a Fault?
Clo. Alas, Sir, I was guilty of no Crime,
But that of having told her how I lov’d her;
For all I had I sacrific’d to her;