War. With nought that marks decline compare my Alice.
She is the blush of morn first caught by earth,
When seraph hands unbar the gates of heaven,
And from its courts bright beams of glory stream.
Fresh as the od'rous breath by zephyr scattered,
When first from dewy flowers he springs rejoicing;
Light as the froth by chafed ocean cast,
When young Aurora, laughing at his suit,
Refuses to retard her rosy steps;
And playful as the changeful hues reflected
Upon its quivering breast.
Arl. She comes.—Farewell.
Love bears no eyes but those he lights to view
The rapture he creates, and turns offended
From the stranger's gaze.
[Exit.
Enter Countess.
Countess. My life, my Warwick!
War. My own! thus let me clasp thee to my heart.
Count. No! let me see thou art indeed my Lord,
And read in those dear eyes the joy of mine.
Thou hast been long in coming.
War. Sweetest, no.
Impatient, like myself, thou hast, I see,
Been measuring the hours by love's slow glass,
And made them sad and heavy.
Count. Now thou'rt wrong—
Not sad.
War. Not sad when Warwick is away?