_Sem._ Your cruel question tears my very soul: Ah, can you doubt me, Prince? a faith, like mine, The softest passion that e'er woman wept; But as resolv'd as ever man could boast: Alas, why will you then suspect my truth? Yet since it shews the fearfulness of love, 'Tis just I should endeavour to convince you: Make bare your sword, my noble father, draw. _Arch._ What would'st thou now? _Sem._ I swear upon it, oh, Be witness, Heav'n, and all avenging pow'rs, Of the true love I give the Prince Ziphares: When I in thought forsake my plighted faith, Much less in act, for empire change my love; May this keen sword by my own father's hand Be guided to my heart, rip veins and arteries; And cut my faithless limbs from this hack'd body, To feast the ravenous birds, and beasts of prey. _Arch._ Now, by my sword, 'twas a good hearty wish; And, if thou play'st him false, this faithful hand As heartily shall make thy wishes good. _Ziph._ O hear mine too. If e'er I fail in aught That love requires in strictest, nicest kind; May I not only be proclaim'd a coward, But be indeed that most detested thing. May I, in this most glorious war I make, Be beaten basely, ev'n by Glabrio's slaves, And for a punishment lose both these eyes; Yet live and never more behold Semandra. [_Trumpets._ _Arch._ Come, no more wishing; hark, the trumpets call. _Sem._ Preserve him, Gods, preserve his innocence; The noblest image of your perfect selves: Farewell; I'm lost in tears. Where are you, Sir? _Arch._ He's gone. Away, my lord, you'll never part. _Ziph._ I go; but must turn back for one last look: Remember, O remember, dear Semandra, That on thy virtue all my fortune hangs; Semandra is the business of the war, Semandra makes the fight, draws every sword; Semandra sounds the trumpets; gives the word. So the moon charms her watery world below; Wakes the still seas, and makes 'em ebb and flow.' [Sidenote: John Crowne (1640-1703?).]