ROBIN. Divinity--it's a--Oh, it's a pretty title that we lords of the creation bestow upon our playthings. But hist! here they come. Now is it a knotty point to be argued, whether this parting doth most affect the mistress and master, or the maid and man. Let Cupid be umpire, and steal the scales of Justice to weigh our heavy sighs. [_Retire._ _Enter ROLFE and POCAHONTAS._ PRINCESS. Nay, let me on-- ROLFE. No further, gentle love; The rugged way has wearied you already. PRINCESS. Feels the wood pigeon weariness, who flies, Mated with her beloved? Ah! lover, no. ROLFE. Sweet! in this grove we will exchange adieus; My steps should point straight onward; were thou with me, Thy voice would bid me quit the forward path At every pace, or fix my side-long look, Spell-bound, upon thy beauties. PRINCESS. Ah! you love not The wild-wood prattle of the Indian maid, As once you did. ROLFE. By heaven! my thirsty ear, Could ever drink its liquid melody. Oh! I could talk with thee, till hasty night, Ere yet the sentinel day had done his watch; Veil'd like a spy, should steal on printless feet, To listen to our parley! Dearest love! My captain has arrived, and I do know, When honour and when duty call upon me, Thou wouldst not have me chid for tardiness. But, ere the matin of to-morrow's lark, Do echo from the roof of nature's temple, Sweetest, expect me. PRINCESS. Wilt thou surely come? ROLFE. To win thee from thy father will I come; And my commander's voice shall join with mine, To woo Powhatan to resign his treasure. PRINCESS. Go then, but ah! forget not-- ROLFE. I'll forget All else, to think on thee! PRINCESS. Thou art my life! I lived not till I saw thee, love; and now, I live not in thine absence. Long, Oh! long I was the savage child of savage Nature; And when her flowers sprang up, while each green bough Sang with the passing west wind's rustling breath; When her warm visitor, flush'd Summer, came, Or Autumn strew'd her yellow leaves around, Or the shrill north wind pip'd his mournful music, I saw the changing brow of my wild mother With neither love nor dread. But now, Oh! now, I could entreat her for eternal smiles, So thou might'st range through groves of loveliest flowers, Where never Winter, with his icy lip, Should dare to press thy cheek. ROLFE. My sweet enthusiast!