_Cort_. I dread your anger, your disquiet fear,
But blows, from hands so soft, who would not bear?
So kind a passion why should I remove?
Since jealousy but shows how well we love.
Yet jealousy so strange I never knew;
Can she, who loves me not, disquiet you?
For in the grave no passions fill the breast,
'Tis all we gain by death, to be at rest.
_Cyd_. That she no longer loves, brings no relief;
Your love to her still lives, and that's my grief.
_Cort_. The object of desire once ta'en away,
'Tis then not love, but pity, which we pay.
_Cyd_. 'Tis such a pity I should never have,
When I must lie forgotten in the grave;
I meant to have obliged you, when I died,
That, after me, you should love none beside.--
But you are false already.
_Cort_. If untrue,
By heaven! my falsehood is to her, not you.
_Cyd_. Observe, sweet heaven, how falsely he does swear!--
You said, you loved me for resembling her.
_Cort_. That love was in me by resemblance bred,
But shows you cheared my sorrows for the dead.
_Cyd_. You still repeat the greatness of your grief.
_Cort_. If that was great, how great was the relief!
_Cyd_. The first love still the strongest we account.
_Cort_. That seems more strong which could the first surmount:
But if you still continue thus unkind,
Whom I love best, you, by my death, shall find.
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