Soft as the fanning of a turtle's plumes,
The sweet confession met my enraptur'd ears.
Aust. What can I do?—Come near, my Theodore;
Dost thou believe my affection?
Theod. Can I doubt it?
Aust. Think what my bosom suffers, when I tell thee,
It must not, cannot be.
Theod. My love for Adelaide!
Aust. Deem it delicious poison; dash it from thee:
Thy bane is in the cup.