ph'st o'er Cydaria too.

_Cort_. What strange disquiet has uncalmed your breast,
Inhuman fair, to rob the dead of rest!--
Poor heart! she slumbers in her silent tomb;
Let her possess in peace that narrow room.

_Cyd_. Poor heart!--he pities and bewails her death!--
Some god, much hated soul, restore thy breath,
That I may kill thee; but, some ease 'twill be,
I'll kill myself for but resembling thee.

_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.

_Cyd_. If you should die, my death shall yours pursue;
But yet I am not satisfied you're true.

_Cort_. Hear me, ye gods! and punish him you hear,
If aught within the world I hold so dear.

_Cyd_. You would deceive the gods and me; she's dead,
And is not in the world, whose love I dread.--
Name not the world; say, nothing is so dear.

_Cort_. Then nothing is,--let that secure your fear.

_Cyd_. 'Tis time must wear it off, but I must go.
Can you your constancy in absence show?

_Cort_. Misdoubt my constancy, and do not try,
But stay, and keep me ever in your eye.

_Cyd_. If as a prisoner I were here, you might
Have then insisted on a conqueror's right,
And staid me here; but now my love would