a way, _Francisca_,
Be so transported, and so passionate,
I shall betray what he will ne'er indure.
And since our other Sister, loose _Hippolyta_, was lost,
He does so guard and watch the fair _Cleonte_--

_Franc._ Why, quarrel with him, Sir: you know you are so much dearer to
my Lord your Father than he is, that should he perceive a Difference
between ye, he would soon dismiss him the House; and 'twere but Reason,
Sir, for I am sure Don _Marcel_ loves you not.

_Silv._ That I excuse, since he the lawful Heir to all my Father's
Fortunes, sees it every Day ready to be sacrific'd to me, who can
pretend no Title to't, but the unaccountable Love my Father bears me.

_Franc._ Can you dissemble, Sir?

_Silv._ The worst of any Man, but would endeavour it, If it could any
ways advance my Love.

_Franc._ Which I must find some way to ruin. [Aside.
Then court his Mistress.

_Silv._ The rich _Flavia_?

_Franc._ That would not incense him, for her he is to marry; But 'tis
the fair _Clarinda_ has his Heart.

_Silv._ To act a feigned Love, and hide a real one,
Is what I have already try'd in vain.
Even fair _Clarinda_ I have courted too,
In hope that way to banish from my Soul
The hopeless Flame _Cleonte_ kindled there;
But 'twas a Shame to see how ill I did dissemble.

_Franc._ Stay, Sir, here comes _Marcel_. I'll leave you.

[Exit _Francisca_.

Enter _Marcel_, with a Letter open in his Hand, which he kisses.

_Mar._ Kind Messenger of Love! Thus, thus a thousand times
I bid thee welcome from my fair _Clarinda_.
Thus joyful Bridegrooms, after long Despairs,
Possess the yielding Treasure in their Arms:
Only thus much the happier Lover I,
Who gather all the Sweets of this fair Maid
Without the ceremonious Tie of Marriage;
That tie that does but nauseate the Delight,
Be far from happy Lovers; we'll embrace
And unconfin'd and free as whispering Air,
That mingles wantonly with spreading Flowers.

_Silv._ What's all this?

_Mar._ _Silvio,_ the Victory's won.
The Heart that nicely stood it out so long,
Now yields upon Conditions.

_Silv._ What Victory? or what Heart?

_Mar._ I am all Rapture, cannot speak it out;
My Senses have carous'd too much of Joy;
And like young Drunkards, proud of their new try'd Strength,
Have made my Pleasure less by the excess.

_Silv._ This is wondrous.
Impart some of your over-charge to me,
The Burden lightned will be