_Ors_. Instruct my Eyes, _Olympia_, for ‘tis lately I’ve learnt of some such thing. _Olym_. This, Sir, you ought to kneel to her. _Ors_. Must I then kneel to ought but Heaven and thee? [_Kneels_. _Qu_. My dear _Orsames_, let my Tears make way. Before I can assure thee of my Joy. _Ors_. Gods! how obliging is this kind Concern! Not all my Passion for my fair _Olympia_ Cou’d ever yet betray me to a Tear. [_Weeps_. _Qu_. Thou’st greater need of Anger than of Tears, Having before thy Eyes thy worst of Enemies, One that has long depriv’d thee of a Crown, Through what she thought her Duty to the Gods; But now repents her superstitious Error, And humbly begs thy Pardon. _Ors_. I will, if you’ll implore _Olympia_ but to love me. _Qu_. I will, my _Orsames_; and ‘tis the only Present I can make to expiate my Fault. _Ors_. And I’ll receive her as the only thing Can make me both a happy Subject and a King. Oh, _Geron_, still if this should prove a Dream! _Ger_. Sir, Dreams of Kings are much less pleasant. _Enter_ Lysander. _Lys_. Sir, there are without some Shepherdesses, Who say they wou’d present you [_To_ Ther. Something that will not be unwelcome to your Highness. _Ther_. Let them come in-- _They seat themselves. Enter_ Amin. Ura. _maskt, Shepherds, Shepherdesses, followed with Pipes, or Wind-Musick. They dance; after which_ Amin. _kneels to the Prince_, Ura. _to the Princess_. --My dear _Amintas_, do I find thee live? Fortune requites my Sufferings With too large a share of Happiness. _Amin_. Sir, I do live to die again for you. _Ther_. This, my Divine, is he who had [_To_ Cleo. The Glory to be bewail’d by you; for him you wept; For him had almost dy’d. _Amin_. That Balm it was, that like the Weapon-salve Heals at a distance-- _Cleo_. But why, Amintas, did you name _Thersander_, When you were askt who wounded you? _Amin_. Madam, if loss of Blood had given me leave, I wou’d have told you how I came so habited, And who I was, though not how I was wounded. _King_. Still I am in a mist, and cannot see the happy path I tread. _Ther_. Anon we will explain the Mystery, Sir. _Hon_. Now, great _Orsames_, ‘tis but just and fit That you receive the Rites of Coronation, Which are not to be paid you in a Camp; The Court will add more to that joyful Day. _King_. And there we’ll join our Souls as well as Swords, Our Interests as our Families. _Ors_. I am content that thou should’st give me Laws: Come, my _Vallentio_, it shall ne’er be said I recompense thy Services With any thing less grateful than a Woman: --Here, I will chuse for thee-- And when I know what ‘tis I more can do, If there be ought beyond this Gift, ‘tis thine. [_Gives him_ Sem.