Cel. [Aside.] Into what Hands, ye Gods! have you refign'd
Your World? Are these the Masters of Mankind?
These supple Romans teach our Women Scorn.
I thank you, Gods, that I'm a Briton born.
Agree these Trifles in a short Debate:
Woman [To her.] no more of this, but follow strait:
And you [To him.] be quick, I am not us'd to wait.
Oriana stands silent and weeping a-while, Constantius
looking concern'd. After a short Pause, Oriana speaks.
Ori. Your Stars and mine have chosen you, to prove
The noblest Way how gen'rous Men should love;
All boast their Flames, but yet no Woman found
A Passion, where Self-love was not the Ground.
Now we're ador'd, and the next Hour displease,
At first your Cure, and after, your Disease:
Slaves we are made, by false Pretences caught;
The Briton in my Soul disdains the Thought.
Con. So much, so tenderly, your Slave adores,
He has no Thought of Happiness, but yours.
Ori. Vows may be feign'd, nor shall meer words prevail,
I must have Proofs; but Proofs that cannot fail.
By Arms, by Honour, and by all that's dear
To Heroes, or expecting Lovers, swear.
