n his Condition, all at once. He was so teazed
with this Variety of Torment, that he never missed the Two Hours that had
slipped away during his Automachy and Intestine Conflict. Leonora's
Return settled his Spirits, at least united them, and he had now no other
Thought but how he should present himself before her. When she calling
her Woman, bid her bolt the Garden Door on the Inside, that she might not
be Surpriz'd by her Father, if he returned through the Convent, which
done, she ordered her to bring down her Lute, and leave her to her self
in the Garden.

All this Hippolito saw and heard to his inexpressible Content, yet had he
much to do to smother his Joy, and hinder it from taking a Vent, which
would have ruined the only Opportunity of his Life. Leonora withdrew
into an Arbour so near him, that he could distinctly hear her if she
Played or Sung: Having tuned her Lute, with a Voice soft as the Breath of
Angels, she flung to it this following Air:

I.

Ah! Whither, whither shall I fly,
A poor unhappy Maid;
To hopeless Love and Misery
By my own Heart betray'd?
Not by Alexis Eyes undone,
Nor by his Charming Faithless Tongue,
Or any Practis'd Art;
Such real Ills may hope a Cure,
But the sad Pains which I endure
Proceed from fansied Smart.

II.

'Twas Fancy gave Alexis Charms,
Ere I beheld his Face:
Kind Fancy (then) could fold our Arms,
And form a soft Embrace.
But since I've seen the real Swain,
And try'd to fancy him again,
I'm by my Fancy taught,
Though 'tis a Bliss no Tongue can tell,
To have Alexis, yet 'tis Hell
To have him but in Thought.

The Song ended grieved Hippolito that it was so soon ended; and in the
Ecstacy he was then rapt, I believe he would have been satisfied to have
expired with it. He could not help Flattering himself, (though at the
same Time he checked his own Vanity) that he was the Person meant in the
Song. While he was indulging which thought, to his happy Astonishment,
he heard it encouraged by these Words:

'Unhappy Leonora (said she) how is thy poor unwary Heart misled? Whither
am I come? The false deluding Lights of an imaginary Flame, have led me,
a poor benighted Victim, to a real Fire. I burn and am consumed with
hopeless Love; those Beams in whose soft temperate warmth I wanton'd
heretofore, now flash destruction to my Soul, my Treacherous greedy Eyes
have suck'd the glaring Light, they have