But we shall meet no more on these kind Terms. Sighs.
Fred. Come, do not weep, sweet Youth, thou art too young,
To have thy blooming Cheeks blasted with sorrow;
Thou wilt out-grow this childish Inclination,
And shalt see Beauties here, whose every glance
Kindle new Fires, and quite expel the old.
Clo. Oh, never, Sir.
Fred. When I was first in love, I thought so too,
But now with equal ardour
I doat upon each new and beauteous Object.