And as these excel in beauty,
Those shall be renowned for love.
SONG BY MR HOWE.
She. You say, 'Tis love creates the pain,
Of which so sadly you complain;
And yet would fain engage my heart
In that uneasy cruel part;
But how, alas! think you, that I
Can bear the wound of which you die?
He. 'Tis not my passion makes my care,