AT length, the fair could no longer contain: Vile wretch, she cried, I've borne too much 'tis plain; I'm not the fav'rite whom thou had'st in view: To tear thy eyes out justly were thy due, 'Tis this, indeed, that makes thee silent keep, Each morn feign sickness, and pretend to sleep, Thyself reserving doubtless for amours:-- Speak, villain! say, of charms have I less stores? Or what has Mrs. Simon more than I? A wanton wench, in tricks so wondrous sly! Where my love less? though truly now I hate; Would that I'd seen thee hung, thou wretch ingrate! MINUTOLO, while thus Catella spoke, Caressed her much, but silence never broke; A kiss e'en tried to gain, without success; She struggled, and refused to acquiesce; Begone! said she, nor treat me like a child; Stand off!--away!--thy taction is defiled; My tears express an injured woman's grief; No more thy wife I'll be, but seek relief; Return my fortune--go:--thy mistress seek; To be so constant:--How was I so weak? It surely would be nothing more than right, Were Richard I to see this very night, Who adoration constantly has paid:-- You much deserve to be a cuckold made; I'm half inclined, I vow, to do the worst. At this our arch gallant with laughter burst. What impudence!--You mock me too? she cried Let's see, with blushes if his face be dyed? When from his arms she sprang, a window sought; The shutters ope'd, and then a view she caught; Minutolo, her lover! * * * what surprise! Pale, faint, she instant grew, and closed her eyes: Who would have thought, said she, thou wert so base? I'm lost! * * * for ever sunk in dire disgrace! WHO'LL, know it? Richard earnestly replied; In Jack's concealment we may both confide; Excuse the trick I've played and ne'er repine; Address, force, treachery, in love combine; All are permitted when intrigue 's the word; To hold the contrary were quite absurd. Till stratagem was used I naught could gain, But looks and darts from eyes, for all my pain. I've paid myself;--Would you have done it?--No; 'Tis all as might be wished;--come, smiles bestow; I'm satisfied, the fault was not with you. In this, to make you wretched, naught I view; Why sigh and groan?--What numbers could I name, Who would be happy to be served the same.