Lyndar. Two if's scarce make one possibility.
Abdal. The rule of happiness by reason scan;
You may be happy with a private man.
Lyndar. That happiness I may enjoy, 'tis true;
But then that private man must not be you.
Where'er I love, I'm happy in my choice;
If I make you so, you shall pay my price.
Abdal. Why would you be so great?
Lyndar. Because I've seen,
This day, what 'tis to hope to be a queen.—
Heaven, how you all watched each motion of her eye!
None could be seen while Almahide was by,
Because she is to be—her majesty!—
Why would I be a queen? Because my face
Would wear the title with a better grace.
If I became it not, yet it would be
Part of your duty, then, to flatter me.
These are but half the charms of being great;
I would be somewhat, that I know not yet:—
Yes! I avow the ambition of my soul,
To be that one to live without controul!
And that's another happiness to me,
To be so happy as but one can be.
Abdal. Madam,—because I would all doubts remove,—
Would you, were I a king, accept my love?
Lyndar. I would accept it; and, to shew 'tis true,
From any other man as soon as you.
Abdal. Your sharp replies make me not love you less;
But make me seek new paths to happiness.—
What I design, by time will best be seen:
You may be mine, and yet may be a queen.
When you are so, your word your love assures.
Lyndar. Perhaps not love you,—but I will be yours.— [He offers to take her hand, and kiss it.
Stay, sir, that grace I cannot yet allow;
Before you set the crown upon my brow.—
That favour which you seek,
Or Abdelmelech, or a king, must have;
When you are so, then you may be my slave. [Exit; but looks smiling back on him.
Abdal. Howe'er imperious in her words she were,
Her parting looks had nothing of severe;
A glancing smile allured me to command,
And her soft fingers gently pressed my hand:
I felt the pleasure glide through every part;
Her hand went through me to my very heart.
For such another pleasure, did he live,
I could my father of a crown deprive.—
What did I say?—
Father!—That impious thought has shocked my mind:
How bold our passions are, and yet how blind!—
She's gone; and now,
Methinks, there is less glory in a crown:
My boiling passions settle, and go down.
Like amber chafed, when she is near, she acts;
When farther oft, inclines, but not attracts.