Cyd. That she no longer loves, brings no relief; Your love to her still lives, and that's my grief.
Cort. The object of desire once ta'en away, 'Tis then not love, but pity, which we pay.
Cyd. 'Tis such a pity I should never have,
When I must lie forgotten in the grave;
I meant to have obliged you, when I died,
That, after me, you should love none beside.—
But you are false already.
Cort. If untrue, By heaven! my falsehood is to her, not you.
Cyd. Observe, sweet heaven, how falsely he does swear!— You said, you loved me for resembling her.
Cort. That love was in me by resemblance bred, But shows you cheared my sorrows for the dead.
Cyd. You still repeat the greatness of your grief.
Cort. If that was great, how great was the relief!
Cyd. The first love still the strongest we account.
Cort. That seems more strong which could the first surmount: But if you still continue thus unkind, Whom I love best, you, by my death, shall find.