Vict. Trust my love.
Alph. I swear I trust it, but I fear your beauty:
'Tis a fair fruit that hangs upon the bough,
Tempts, and is tempted.
Vict. 'Tis indeed a fruit.
Seen and desired by all, while yet unpulled,
But can be gathered by one only hand.
Alph. That one is Garcia;—still the fit returns:
I wish my jealousy could quench my love.