Rod. Impossible! she could not thus resign
Me, for a miscreant of Barbary,
A mere adventurer: but that citron face
Shall bleach and shrivel the whole winter long
There, on yon cork-tree by the sallyport.
She shall return.
Opas. To fondness and to faith?
Dost thou retain them, if she could return?
Rod. Retain them? she has forfeited by this
All right to fondness, all to royalty.
Opas. Consider, and speak calmly: she deserves
Some pity, some reproof.
Rod. To speak then calmly,
Since thine eyes open and can see her guilt—
Infamous and atrocious! let her go—
Chains
Opas. What! in Muza’s camp?
Rod. My scorn supreme!
Opas. Say pity.
Rod. Ay, ay, pity—that suits best.
I loved her, but had loved her; three whole years
Of pleasure, and of varied pleasure too,
Had worn the soft impression half away.
What I once felt, I would recall; the faint
Responsive voice grew fainter each reply:
Imagination sank amid the scenes
It laboured to create; the vivid joy
Of fleeting youth I followed, and possessed.
’Tis the first moment of the tenderest hour,
’Tis the first mien on entering new delights,
We give our peace, our power, our souls, for these.
Opas. Thou hast; and what remains?