Lady Brute. The Case is not the same. What Mischief we do, we can't help, and therefore are to be forgiven.
Const. Beauty soon obtains Pardon for the Pain that it gives, when it applies the Balm of Compassion to the Wound: But a fine Face, and a hard Heart, is almost as bad as an ugly Face and a soft one; both very troublesome to many a poor Gentleman.
Lady Brute. Yes, and to many a poor Gentlewoman, too, I can assure you. But pray, which of 'em is it that most afflicts you?
Const. Your Glass and Conscience will inform you, Madam. But for Heaven's sake (for now I must be serious), if Pity, or if Gratitude can move you; [Taking her Hand.] if Constancy and Truth have power to tempt you; if Love, if Adoration can affect you; give me at least some Hopes, that Time may do what you perhaps mean never to perform; 'twill ease my Sufferings, tho' not quench my Flame.
Lady Brute. Your Sufferings eas'd, your Flame wou'd soon abate: And that I would preserve, not quench it, Sir.
Const. Wou'd you preserve it, nourish it with Favours; for that's the Food it naturally requires.
Lady Brute. Yet on that natural Food 'twould surfeit soon, shou'd I resolve to grant all you wou'd ask.
Const. And in refusing all, you starve it. Forgive me, therefore, since my Hunger rages, if I at last grow wild, and in my frenzy force at least this from you. [Kissing her Hand.] Or if you'd have my Flame soar higher still, then grant me this, and this, and Thousands more; [Kissing first her Hand, then her Neck.] [Aside.] For now's the time she melts into Compassion.
Lady Brute. [Aside.] Poor Coward Virtue, how it shuns the Battle! O Heavens! let me go.
Const. Ay, go, ay: Where shall we go, my charming Angel——into this private Arbour——Nay, let's lose no time——Moments are precious.