With feasts, and music, all that brings delight,
Men treat their ears, their palates, and their sight.
_Cyd_. Your gallants, sure, have little eloquence,
Failing to move the soul, they court the sense:
With pomp, and trains, and in a crowd they woo,
When true felicity is but in two;
But can such toys your women's passions move?
This is but noise and tumult, 'tis not love.
_Cort_. I have no reason, madam, to excuse
Those ways of gallantry, I did not use;
My love was true, and on a nobler score.
_Cyd_. Your love, alas! then have you loved before?
_Cort_. 'Tis true I loved, but she is dead, she's dead;
And I should think with her all beauty fled,
Did not her fair resemblance live in you,
And, by that image, my first flames renew.
_Cyd_. Ah! happy beauty, whosoe'er thou art!
Though dead, thou keep'st possession of his heart;
Thou makest me jealous to the last degree,
And art my rival in his memory:
Within his memory! ah, more than so,
Thou livest and triumph'st o'er Cydaria too.
_Cort_. What strange disquiet has uncalmed your breast,
Inhuman fair, to rob the dead of rest!--
Poor heart! she slumbers in her silent tomb;
Let her possess in peace that narrow room.
_Cyd_. Poor heart!--he pities and bewails her death!--
Some god, much hated soul, restore thy breath,
That I may kill thee; but, some ease 'twill be,
I'll kill myself for but resembling thee.
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