.

_Leon._ 'Twas to my loss the gods that title gave;
A tyrant's son is doubly born a slave:
He gives a crown; but, to prevent my life
From being happy, loads it with a wife.

_Palm._ Speak quickly; what have you resolved to do?

_Leon._ To keep my faith inviolate to you.
He threatens me with exile, and with shame,
To lose my birthright, and a prince's name;
But there's a blessing which he did not mean,
To send me back to love and you again.

_Palm._ Why was not I a princess for your sake?
But heaven no more such miracles can make:
And, since that cannot, this must never be;
You shall not lose a crown for love of me.
Live happy, and a nobler choice pursue;
I shall complain of fate, but not of you.

_Leon._ Can you so easily without me live?
Or could you take the counsel, which you give?
Were you a princess, would you not be true?

_Palm._ I would; but cannot merit it from you.

_Leon._ Did you not merit, as you do, my heart,
Love gives esteem, and then it gives desert.
But if I basely could forget my vow,
Poor helpless innocence, what would you do?

_Palm._ In woods, and plains, where first my love began,
There would I live, retired from faithless man:
I'd sit all day within some lonely shade,
Or that close arbour which your hands have made:
I'd search the groves, and every tree, to find
Where you had carved our names upon the rind:
Your hook, your scrip, all that was yours, I'd keep,
And lay them by me when I went to sleep.
Thus would I live: And maidens, when I die,
Upon my hearse white true-love-knots should tie;
And thus my tomb should be inscribed above,
_Here the forsaken Virgin rests from love._

_Leon._ Think not that time or fate shall e'er divide
Those hearts, which love and mutual vows have tied.
But we must part; farewell, my love.

_Palm._ Till when?

_Leon._ Till the next age of hours we meet again.
Meantime, we may,
When near each other we in public stand,
Contrive to catch a look, or steal a hand:
Fancy will every touch and glance improve;
And draw the most spirituous parts of love.
Our souls sit close, and silently within,
And their own web from their own entrails spin;
And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such,
That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch. [_Exeunt._

ACT III. SCENE I.

_Enter_ RHODOPHIL, _meeting_ DORALICE _and_ ARTEMIS; RHODOPHIL _and_
DORALICE _embrace._

_Rho._ My own dear heart!

_Dor._ My own true love! [_She starts back._]