L. Lam. This the great Monarch of the World once ty’d about my Arm, and bad me wear it, till some greater Man shou’d chance to win my Heart; Thou art that Man whom Love has rais’d above him; Whom every Grace and every Charm thou hast Conspire to make thee mightier to my Soul; And _Oliver_, illustrious _Oliver_, Was yet far short of thee. Lov. He was the Monarch then whose Spoils I triumph in. L. Lam. They were design’d too for Trophies to the young and gay. Ah, _Loveless!_ that I cou’d reward thy Youth With something that might make thee more than Man, As well as to give the best of Women to thee— [Rises, takes him by the Hand, leads him to the Table. He starts. —Behold this gay, this wondrous glorious thing. Lov. Hah—a Crown—and Scepter! Have I been all this while So near the sacred Relicks of my King; And found no awful Motion in my Blood, Nothing that mov’d sacred Devotion in me? [Kneels. 400 —Hail sacred Emblem of great Majesty, Thou that hast circled more Divinity Than the great Zodiack that surrounds the World. I ne’er was blest with sight of thee till now, But in much reverenc’d Pictures— [Rises and bows. L. Lam. Is’t not a lovely thing? Lov. There’s such Divinity i’ th’ very Form on’t, Had I been conscious I’d been near the Temple, Where this bright Relick of the glorious Martyr Had been enshrin’d, ’t had spoil’d my soft Devotion. —’Tis Sacrilege to dally where it is; A rude, a saucy Treason to approach it With an unbended Knee: for Heav’ns sake, Madam, Let us not be profane in our Delights, Either withdraw, or hide that glorious Object. L. Lam. Thou art a Fool, the very sight of this— Raises my Pleasure higher: Methinks I give a Queen into thy Arms, And where I love I cannot give enough; [Softly. —Wou’d I cou’d set it on thy Head for ever, ’Twou’d not become my simple Lord The thousandth part so well. [Goes to put it on his Head, he puts it back. Lov. Forbear, and do not play with holy things; Let us retire, and love as Mortals shou’d, Not imitate the Gods, and spoil our Joys. L. Lam. Lovely, and unambitious! What hopes have I of all your promis’d Constancy, Whilst this which possibly e’er long may adorn my Brow, And ought to raise me higher in your Love, Ought to transform you even to Adoration, Shall poorly make you vanish from its Lustre? Methinks the very Fancy of a Queen Is worth a thousand Mistresses of less illustrious Rank. Lov. What, every pageant Queen? you might from thence infer 401 I’d fall in love with every little Actress, because She acts the Queen for half an hour, But then the gaudy Robe is laid aside. L. Lam. I’ll pardon the Comparison in you.