_Cur._ And have you seen her, Sir, in all this Beauty? Oh Hell! [Aside. _Fred._ _Curtius_, I will not hide my Soul from thee; I have seen all the marvels of that Maid. _Cur._ My Soul, learn now the Art of being disguis’d; [Aside. --’Tis much, my Lord, that one Bred in such simple Innocence, Should learn so soon so much of Confidence: Pray, Sir, what Arts and Cunning do you use? _Fred._ Faith, time and importunity refuse no body. _Cur._ Is that the way? had you no other Aids? Made you no promise to her, Sir, of Marriage? _Fred._ Oh, yes, in abundance, that’s your only bait, And though they cannot hope we will perform it, Yet it secures their Honour and my Pleasure. _Cur._ Then, Sir, you have enjoy’d her? _Fred._ Oh, yes, and gather’d Sweets Would make an Anchoret neglect his Vow, And think he had mistook his way to future bliss, Which only can be found in such Embraces; ‘Twas hard to gain, but, _Curtius_, when once Victor, Oh, how the joys of Conquest did enslave me! _Cur._ But, Sir, methinks ‘tis much that she should yield, With only a bare promise that you’d marry her. _Fred._ Yes, there was something more--but-- _Cur._ But, what, Sir, you are not married. _Fred._ Faith, yes, I’ve made a Vow, And that you know would go as far with any other Man. _Cur._ But she it seems forgot you were the Prince? _Fred._ No, she urg’d that too, And left no Arguments unus’d Might make me sensible of what I did; But I was fixt, and overcame them all, Repeating still my Vows and Passions for her, Till in the presence of her Maid and Heaven We solemnly contracted. _Cur._ But, Sir, by your permission, was it well? _Fred._ What wouldst thou have him do That’s all on fire, and dies for an Enjoyment? _Cur._ But having gain’d it, do you love her still? _Fred._ Yes, yes, extremely, And would be constant to the Vows I’ve made, Were I a Man, as thou art of thy self; But with the aid of Counsels I must chuse, And what my Soul adores I must refuse. _Cur._ This Passion, Sir, Possession will destroy, And you’l love less, the more you do enjoy. _Fred._ That’s all my hope of cure; I’ll ply that game, And slacken by degrees th’ unworthy flame. _Cur._ Methinks, my Lord, it had more generous been To’ve check’d that flame when first it did begin, E’er you the slighted Victory had won, And a poor harmless Virgin quite undone: And what is worse, you’ve made her love you too. _Fred._ Faith, that’s the greater mischief of the two; I know to such nice virtuous Souls as thine, My juster Inclination is a Crime: But I love Pleasures which thou canst not prize, Beyond dull gazing on thy Mistress Eyes, The lovely Object which enslaves my Heart, Must yet more certain Cures than Smiles impart: --And you on _Laura_ have the same design. _Cur._ Yes, Sir, when justify’d by Laws Divine.