THEO. I know not how to tell thee: Now I could wish myself to be all eyes, As erst all ears. I see a shape as fair, And as divine, as was the voice it sent; But clouded all with sorrow: a fair woman, If by a name so mortal I may term her. In such a sorrow sat the Queen of Love, When in the wood she wail'd Adonis' death, And from her crystal-dropping eyes did pay A lover's obsequy. EUG. Let me come near. THEO. Sure, black is Cupid's colour; Death and he Have chang'd their liveries now, as in the fable They did their quivers once.[12] EUG. Ah, woe is me! THEO. What means that woe? EUG. Ah, Theodore! my guilt Pursues me to the woods! No place can keep The monuments of my misdeeds away. THEO. I understand you not. EUG. It is Matilda, The slaughter'd Scudmore's love, his virtuous love, Whose life by me unhappily was spilt. The sad, melodious ditty, which so late Did pierce our ravish'd ears, was but the note Of this fair turtle for her slaughter'd mate; In which perchance, amidst her woes, she sends Black curses up against my spotted self. But I with prayers and blessings will repay Whate'er thou vent'st 'gainst me. O, do not wish More wretchedness to my distracted soul Than I already feel! Sad sighs and tears Are all the satisfaction that is left For me to make to thy dead love and thee. THEO. Those lips can vent no curses; 'twould take off Much from the sweetness of her virtuous sorrow. Where lives this lovely maid? EUG. In the next village. THEO. Has she a father living? EUG. No, friend; he died When she was in her infancy. Her mother Two years ago deceas'd, and left her all The substance that she had; which was not great, But does maintain her. In that little house, E'er since this fatal accident, she lives A miracle of truth and constancy, Wailing her love; and now, it seems, has[13] come To vent her woful passions to the woods. THEO. How happy had he been in such a love, If fate had spar'd his life! But he is dead, And time at last may wear this sorrow off, And make her relish the true joys of love. But why do I thus wander in my thoughts? This passion must be curb'd in the beginning; 'Twill prove too stubborn for me, if it grow. [_Aside._ EUG. Come, let us to my cave, as we intended, Ere this sad object stay'd us. THEO. Sad indeed! Believe me, friend, I suffer with thee in it; But we were wounded in two different kinds. [_Aside._ Come, let's be gone; though--I could still--dwell here. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ MATILDA.