ns that wrack me,
I admit it; but in what
Thou hast said of Christian magic
I, Daria, must deny it.

DARIA.
How? from what cause else could happen
The effects I just have witnessed?

CHRYSANTHUS.
Miracles they are and marvels.

DARIA.
Why do they affect not me?

CHRYSANTHUS.
'T is because I do not ask them
Against thee; because from aiding
Not myself, no aid is granted.

DARIA.
Then I come here to undo them.

CHRYSANTHUS.
Most severe will be the battle,
Upon one side their due praises
On the other side thy anger.

DARIA.
I would have thee understand
That our gods are sorely damaged
By thy sentiments.

CHRYSANTHUS.
And I
That those gods are false--mere phantoms.

DARIA.
Then get ready for the conflict,
For I will not lower my standard
Save with victory or death.

CHRYSANTHUS.
Though thou makest me thy captive,
Thou my firmness wilt not conquer.

DARIA.
Then to arms! I say, to arms, then!

CHRYSANTHUS.
Though the outposts of the soul,
The weak heart, by thee be captured;
Not so will the Understanding,
The strong warden who doth guard it.

DARIA.
Thou 'lt believe me, if thou 'lt love me.

CHRYSANTHUS.
Thou not me, 'till love attracts thee.

DARIA.
That perhaps may be; for I
Would not give thee this advantage.

CHRYSANTHUS.
Oh! that love indeed may lead thee
To a state so sweet and happy!

DARIA.
Oh! what power will disabuse thee
Of thy ignorance, Chrysanthus?

CHRYSANTHUS.
Oh! what pitying power, Daria,
Will the Christian faith impart thee?

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I.--The Garden of Polemius.

Enter POLEMIUS, AURELIUS, CLAUDIUS, and ESCARPIN.

POLEMIUS.
All my house is in confusion,
Full of terrors, full of horrors;[11]
Ah! how true it is a son
Is the source of many sorrows!--

CLAUDIUS.
But, my lord, reflect . . .

ESCARPIN.
Consider . . .
Think . . .

POLEMIUS.
Why think, when misery follows?--
Cease: you add to my affliction,
And in no way bring me solace.
Since you see that in his madness
He is now more firm and constant,
Falling sick of new diseases,
Ere he 's well of old disorders:
Since one young and beauteous maiden,
Whom love wished to him to proffer,
Free from every spot and blemish,
Pure and perfect in her fondness,
Is the one whose fatal charms
Give to him such grief and torment,
That each moment he may perish,
That he may expire each moment;
How then can you hope that