eady here.

_Gal_. But prithee how does she support this news?

_Oli_. Madam, as those unreconciled to Heaven
Would bear the pangs of death.

_Am_. Time will convince her of that foolish error,
Of thinking a brisk young Husband a torment.

_Gal_. What young Husband?

_Am_. The General, Madam.

_Gal_. Why, dost thou think she will consent to it?

_Am_. Madam, I cannot tell, the World's inconstant.

_Gal_. Ay, _Aminta_, in every thing but Love;
And sure they cannot be in that:
What say'st thou, _Olinda_?

_Oli_. Madam, my Judgment's naught.
Love I have treated as a stranger Guest,
Receiv'd him well, not lodg'd him in my Breast.
I ne'er durst give the unknown Tyrant room;
Lest he should make his resting place his home.

_Gal_. Then thou art happy; but if _Erminia_ fail,
I shall not live to reproach her.

_Am_. Nay, Madam, do not think of dying yet:
There is a way, if we could think of it.

_Gal. Aminta_, when will thou this Humour lose?

_Am_. Faith, never, if I might my Humour chuse.

_Gal_. Methinks thou now should'st blush to bid me live.

_Am_. Madam, 'tis the best counsel I can give.

_Gal_. Thy Counsel! Prithee, what dost counsel now?

_Am_. What I would take my self I counsel you.

_Gal_. You must my Wounds and my Misfortunes bear
Before you can become my Counsellor.
You cannot guess the Torments I endure:
Not knowing the Disease you'll miss the Cure.

_Am_. Physicians, Madam, can the Patient heal
Although the Malady they ne'er did feel;
But your Disease is epidemical,
Nor can I that evade that conquers all.
I lov'd, and never did like pleasure know,
Which Passion did with time less vigorous grow.

_Gal_. Why, hast thou lost it?

_Am_. It, and half a score.

_Gal_. Losing the first, sure thou couldst love no more.

_Am_. With more facility, than when the Dart
Arm'd with resistless fire first seiz'd my Heart;
'Twas long then e'er the Boy could entrance get,
And make his little Victory compleat;
And now he'as got the knack on't, 'tis with ease
He domineers, and enters when he please.

_Gal_. My Heart, _Aminta_, is not like to thine.

_Am_. Faith, Madam, try, you'll find it just like mine.
The first I lov'd was _Philocles_, and then
Made Protestations ne'er to love again,
Yet after left him for a faithless crime;
But then I languisht even to death for him;
--But Love who suffer'd me to take no rest,
New fire-balls threw, the old scarce dispossest;
And