O, you are welcome! Here behold a rock,
That stands the shake of the impetuous winds
And the swoll'n seas.
Moor. Have there been any new storms since I went?
Her. O yes; and more endangering songs of Sirens!
A flourishing land propos'd, on which I might
Have shipwreck'd with delight.
Moor. I think I understand you.
Her. You must needs:
It was Prince Lysicles, presented in his lustre,
'Gainst whom I arm'd the virtues of my friend
And my own faith, irresolute to whom
The victory should yield. At last I left
My heart, the prize to both divided.
Her. Yes, the prince hath the adoration of my heart,
Eugenio the love.
Moor. What fires, what seas, must your Eugenio pass,
To make him worthy you? Methinks I feel
His soul sigh for a trial of his faith.
Her. We both have had satiety of that:
But can you bring no comfort? Have the gods
Shut up their oracles as well as mercy?
Though they will give no ease, they might advise,
That we may put off misery by death.
Moor. They seldom let us know what is to come,
That we may still implore their aid to help us:
Yet something I can tell; if hope or force
Shall make you deviate from your resolve,
You are the subject of their hate: or if
You measure your or their affection
By merit or advantages of fortune,
You are the mark of all disasters.