[Ex.
severally. Luc. He's gone, and to his Mistress too. Enter Ariadne
pursu'd by Willmore. Will. My little Daphne, 'tis in vain to fly,
unless like her, you cou'd be chang'd into a Tree: Apollo's self
pursu'd not with more eager Fire than I. [Holds her. Aria. Will you
not grant a Parly e'er I yield? Will. I'm better at a Storm. Aria.
Besides, you're wounded too. Will. Oh leave those Wounds of Honour to
my Surgeon, thy Business is to cure those of Love. Your true bred
Soldier ever fights with the more heat for a Wound or two. Aria.
Hardly in Venus' Wars. Will. Her self ne'er thought so when she
snatcht her Joys between the rough Encounters of the God of War. Come,
let's pursue the Business we came for: See the kind Night invites, and
all the ruffling Winds are husht and still, only the Zephirs spread
their tender Wings, courting in gentle Murmurs the gay Boughs; 'twas
in a Night like this, Diana taught the Mysteries of Love to the fair
Boy Endymion. I am plaguy full of History and Simile tonight. Aria.
You see how well he far'd for being modest. Will. He might be modest,
but 'twas not over-civil to put her Goddessship to asking first; thou
seest I'm better bred- Come let's haste to silent Grots that attend
us, dark Groves where none can see, and murmuring Fountains. Aria.
Stay, let me consider first, you are a Stranger, inconstant too as
Island Winds, and every day are fighting for your Mistresses, of which
you've had at least four since I saw you first, which is not a whole
day.
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