Escarpin.
Oh! how soon they 'd have an answer
If they asked of me these questions.
I know how to treat such tattle:
Leave them, sir, to me.
Chrysanthus.
My senses
'Gainst their lures I must keep guarded:
They are crocodiles, but feigning
Human speech, so but to drag me
To my ruin, my destruction.
Nisida.
Since my voice will still attract thee,
'T is of little use to fly me.
Cynthia.
Though thou dost thy best to guard thee,
While I gloss the words she singeth
To my genius thou must hearken.
Chrysanthus (aside.)
God whom I adore! since I
Help myself, Thy help, oh! grant me!
Nisida.
"Ah! the joy" . . . . (she becomes confused.
But what is this?
Icy torpor coldly fastens
On my hands; the lute drops from me,
And my very breath departeth.