Don A. O heavens! what's that I see?—or do I dream?
[Antonio, seeing her, starts, then stands as if amazed.
Sure, I am asleep, and 'tis a vision
Of her who's always present to my thoughts;
Who (fearing my revolt) does now appear
To prove and to confirm my constancy.
When first I saw that miracle, she seem'd
An apparition; here it must be one.
What fit of frenzy's this?
Ern. Sir, 'tis Porcia:
A lovely, living woman, and your bride.
Don A. The blessing is too mighty for my faith.
Ern. Faith! Ne'er trouble your faith in this occasion;
Approach her boldly, sir, and trust your sense.
Don A. As when we dream of some transporting pleasure,
And (finding that we dream) we fear to wake,
Lest sense should rob us of our fancy's treasure,
And our delightful vision from us take,
Bless'd apparition, so it fares with me.
That very angel now once more appears,
To whose divinity long since I rais'd
An altar in my heart, where I have offer'd
The constant sacrifice of sighs and vows.
My eyes are open, yet I dare not trust 'em!
Bliss above faith must pass for an illusion.
If such it be, O, let me sleep for ever,
Happily deceiv'd? But, celestial maid,
If this thy glorious presence real be,
O, let one word of pity raise my soul
From visionary bliss, and make me die
With real joy instead of ecstasy.
Speak, speak, my destiny; for the same breath
May warm my heart, or cool it into death.
Ern. 'Slife! he's in one of his old fits again—
Why, what d' you mean, sir? 'tis Porcia herself.
Cam. I am that maid, who to your virtue owes
Her honour then and her disquiet since;
Yet in my pain I cannot but be pleas'd
To find a passion, censur'd in our sex,
Justifi'd by so great an obligation.
'Tis true I blush, yet I must own the fire,
To which both love and gratitude conspire.
Don A. Incomparable creature! can it be
That, having suffer'd all which mighty love
Did e'er inflict, I now should be repaid
With as full joys as love could ever give?
Fortune, to make my happiness complete,
Has join'd her power, and made me find a bride
In a lost mistress: but with this allay—
Of leaving me no means my faith to prove,
Since chance anticipates the pains of love.