Thy Beams, like Glorys veil’d shou’d be,
And like the Front of Heav’n, unseen, pass by;
For to behold ’em, in full force, we die.
Prince. [Mirtilla], O! I faint, I die with thy Beauty’s Luxury! by Heaven, I’m all Rapture, Love, and Joy: Such a dear Night, Lejere!—Poets may fancy pressing Goddesses, on downy Beds of Clouds—But oh, Lejere!—Those Gods were never half so blest as I!
Geo. What pity ’twere to wake you from this Dream.
Prince. It is not in the power of Time nor Age: For even then Mirtilla will have Charms! Oh, how she speaks! how well she’ll grace a Story!
Geo. How gay her Wit! how movingly she writes!
Prince. I do believe she does. A little seriously.
Geo. Would it displease you, should you see a Billet from her?
Prince. That’s as it were directed. Gravely.