To swoon about her as she moved along;
Until, descending tow’rd my sister’s room,
She set, and left me hesitating like
Some traveller who with the setting sun
Doth fear to lose his way; her image still,
Lost from without, dazzling my inner eye—
Can this be love, Don Arias? if not,
What is it? something much akin to love.
Ar. But had you not, my lord, often before
Seen Donna Anna?