'Tis the soul's cordial—'tis the font of life;
Therefore should spring eternal in the breast.
One object lost, another should succeed,
And all our life be love.
Zap. Urge me no more.—Thou mightst with equal hope
Woo the cold marble, weeping o'er a tomb,
To meet thy wishes. But, if generous love (approaches him.)
Dwell in thy breast, vouchsafe me proof sincere:
Give me safe convoy to the native vales
Of dear Mutija, where my father reigns.