ain.

_Isab._ I am not of your opinion, nor ever saw that
Man who had not Faults to Cure,
As well as Charms to kill.

_Ism._ Since thou'rt so good a Judge of Men,
Prithee tell me how thou lik'st _Alberto_.

_Isab._ I knew 'twould come to this-- [Aside.
Why, well, Madam.

_Ism._ No more than so?

_Isab._ Yes, wondrous well, since I am sure he loves you,
And that indeed raises a Man's Value.

_Ism._ Thou art deceiv'd, I do not think he loves me.

_Isab._ Madam, you cannot but see a thousand Marks on't.

_Ism._ Thou hast more Skill than I;
But prithee why does he not tell me so himself?

_Isab._ Oh Madam, whilst he takes you for _Clarina_,
'Twould shew his disrespect to tell his Love?
But when he knows _Ismena_ is the Object,
He'll tire you with the wish'd for story.

_Ism._ Ah, thou art a pleasing Flatterer.

Enter _Page_.

_Page._ Madam, _Alberto_ is without.

_Ism._ Tell him I'm indispos'd, and cannot see him now.

_Isab._ Nay, good Madam, see him now by all means,
For I am sure my Lord _Antonio_ is absent on purpose.
--Bid him come in, Boy. [Exit _Page_.

Enter _Alberto_.

_Ism._ _Antonio_, Sir, is not return'd.

_Alb._ Madam, this Visit was not meant to him,
But by a Cause more pressing I am brought,
Such as my Passion, not My Friendship taught;
A Passion which my Sighs have only shewn,
And now beg leave my bashful Tongue may own.
The knowledge, Madam, will not much surprise,
Which you have gain'd already from mine Eyes;
My timorous Heart that way my Tongue would spare,
And tells you of the Flames you've kindled there:
'Tis long I've suffered under this Constraint,
Have always suffer'd, but ne'er made Complaint;
And now against my will I must reveal
What Love and my Respect would fain conceal.

_Ism._ What mean you, Sir? what have you seen in me,
That should encourage this temerity?

_Alb._ A world of Beauties, and a world of Charms,
And every Smile and Frown begets new harms;
In vain I strove my Passion to subdue,
Which still increas'd the more I look'd on you;
Nor will my Heart permit me to retire,
But makes my Eyes the convoys to my Fire,
And not one Glance you send is cast away.

_Ism._ Enough, my Lord, have you nought else to say?
The Plot's betray'd, and can no further go; [Smiles.
The Stratagem's discover'd to the Foe;
I find _Antonio_ has more Love than Wit,