Don John. That thou mayst ne'er have cause to fear those harms,
I'll be confined for ever in thy arms:
Nay, I'll not one short minute from thee stray;
Myself I'll on thy tender bosom lay,
Till in its warmths I'm melted all away.
Enter Garcia.
Gar. Madam, your lord—
D. of Eboli. Oh! fly, or I'm undone. [Exit Garcia.
Don John. Must I without thy blessing then be gone?
[Kisses her hand.
D. of Eboli. Think you that this discretion merits one?
[Pulls it back.
Don John. I'm awed:
As a sick wretch, that on his death-bed lies,
Loth with his friends to part, just as he dies,
Thus sends his soul in wishes from his eyes. [Exit.
D. of Eboli. O Heaven! what charms in youth and vigour are!
Yet he in conquest is not gone too far;
Too easily I'll not myself resign:
Ere I am his, I'll make him surely mine;
Draw him by subtle baits into the trap,
Till he's too far got in to make escape;
About him swiftly the soft snare I'll cast,
And when I have him there, I'll hold him fast.