f any manly passion?
The sweetness of thy mother's milk is yet
Within thy veins, not soured and turned by love.

_Gons_. Thou hast not field enough in thy young breast,
To entertain such storms to struggle in.

_Amid_. Young as I am, I know the power of love;
Its less disquiets, and its greater cares,
And all that's in it, but the happiness.
Trust a boy's word, sir, if you please, and take
My innocence for wisdom; Leave this lady;
Cease to persuade yourself you are in love,
And you will soon be freed. Not that I wish
A thing, so noble as your passion, lost
To all the sex: Bestow it on some other;
You'll find many as fair, though none so cruel.--
Would I could be a lady for your sake!

_Hip_. If I could be a woman, with a wish,
You should not be without a rival long.

_Amid_. A cedar, of your stature, would not cause
Much jealousy.

_Hip_. More than a shrub of yours.

_Gons_. How eagerly these boys fall out for nothing!--
Tell me, Hippolito, wert thou a woman,
Who would'st thou be?

_Hip_. I would be Julia, sir,
Because you love her.

_Amid_. I would not be she,
Because she loves not you.
_Hip_. True, Amideo;
And, therefore, I would wish myself a lady,
Who, I am sure, does infinitely love him.

_Amid_. I hope that lady has a name?

_Hip_. She has:
And she is called Honoria, sister to
This Julia, and bred up at Barcelona;
Who loves him with a flame so pure and noble,
That, did she know his love to Julia,
She would beg Julia to make him happy.

_Gons_. This startles me!

_Amid_. Oh, sir, believe him not:
They love not truly, who, on any terms,
Can part with what they love.

_Gons_. I saw a lady
At Barcelona, of what name I know not,
Who, next to Julia, was the fairest creature
My eyes did e'er behold: But, how camest thou
To know her?

_Hip_. Sir, some other time I'll tell you.

_Amid_. It could not be Honoria, whom you saw;
For, sir, she has a face so very ugly,
That, if she were a saint for holiness,
Yet no man would seek virtue there.

_Hip_. This is the lyingest boy, sir;--I am sure
He never saw Honoria; for her face,
'Tis not so bad to frighten any man--
None of the wits have libelled it.

_Amid_. Don Roderick's sister, Angelina, does
So far exceed her, in the ornaments
Of wit and beauty, though now hid from sight,
That, like the sun, (even when eclipsed) she casts
A yellowness upon all other faces.

_Hip_. I'll not say much of her, but only this,
Don Manuel saw not with my e