Arcab. The Stars that you reproach, my Art can force,
I can direct 'em to a kinder Course.
What conquer'd Nations, driven from the Field,
Can please your Pride, like tender Maids that yield?
What Sound so sweet or ravishing, can move
Like the soft Whisper of consenting Love?
What Spoils of Fame, what Trophies have the Charms
Of Love, triumphant in a Virgin's Arms?
Freely as Nature made the Traesure mine,
And boldly rifle all, each Gem is thine,
Unguarded see the Maiden Casket stand,
Glad of the Theft, to court the Robber's Hand;
Honour his wonted Watch no longer keeps,
Seize quickly, Soldier, while the Dragon sleeps.
Amad. Enchanting are your Looks, less Magick lyes
In your mysterious Art, than in your Eyes;
Such melting Language claims a soft Return,
Pity the hopeless Love with which I burn:
Fast bound already, and not free to chuse,
I prize the Biessing which I must refuse.
Arcab. Those formal Lovers be for ever curst,
Who fetter'd free-born Love with Honour first,
And against Nature will be Slaves to Rules.
How cold he stands! Unkindling at my Charms!
