Cyd. But if they are not trusted when they vow, What other marks of passion can they show?
Cort. With feasts, and music, all that brings delight, Men treat their ears, their palates, and their sight.
Cyd. Your gallants, sure, have little eloquence,
Failing to move the soul, they court the sense:
With pomp, and trains, and in a crowd they woo,
When true felicity is but in two;
But can such toys your women's passions move?
This is but noise and tumult, 'tis not love.
Cort. I have no reason, madam, to excuse Those ways of gallantry, I did not use; My love was true, and on a nobler score.
Cyd. Your love, alas! then have you loved before?
Cort. 'Tis true I loved, but she is dead, she's dead;
And I should think with her all beauty fled,
Did not her fair resemblance live in you,
And, by that image, my first flames renew.
Cyd. Ah! happy beauty, whosoe'er thou art!
Though dead, thou keep'st possession of his heart;
Thou makest me jealous to the last degree,
And art my rival in his memory:
Within his memory! ah, more than so,
Thou livest and triumph'st o'er Cydaria too.
Cort. What strange disquiet has uncalmed your breast,
Inhuman fair, to rob the dead of rest!—
Poor heart! she slumbers in her silent tomb;
Let her possess in peace that narrow room.
Cyd. Poor heart!—he pities and bewails her death!—
Some god, much hated soul, restore thy breath,
That I may kill thee; but, some ease 'twill be,
I'll kill myself for but resembling thee.
Cort. I dread your anger, your disquiet fear,
But blows, from hands so soft, who would not bear?
So kind a passion why should I remove?
Since jealousy but shows how well we love.
Yet jealousy so strange I never knew;
Can she, who loves me not, disquiet you?
For in the grave no passions fill the breast,
'Tis all we gain by death, to be at rest.