Confess at least, dear Recha,
That all this restlessness has brought you pleasure,
And that you have to thank his want of ease
For all the ease that you yourself enjoy.
RECHA.
I know not that, but I must still confess
That to myself it seems a mystery
How in this bosom, such a pleasing calm
Can suddenly succeed so rude a storm.
His countenance, his speech, his manner have----