_Emp._ Have patience,--my first flames can ne'er decay; These are but dreams, and soon will pass away; Thou know'st, my heart, my empire, all is thine. In thy own heaven of love serenely shine; Fair as the face of nature did appear, When flowers first peep'd, and trees did blossoms bear, And winter had not yet deformed the inverted year; Calm as the breath which fans our eastern groves, And bright as when thy eyes first lighted up our loves. Let our eternal peace be sealed by this, With the first ardour of a nuptial kiss. [_Offers to kiss her._ _Nour._ Me would you have,--me your faint kisses prove, The dregs and droppings of enervate love? Must I your cold long-labouring age sustain, And be to empty joys provoked in vain? Receive you, sighing after other charms, And take an absent husband in my arms? _Emp._ Even these reproaches I can bear from you; You doubted of my love, believe it true: Nothing but love this patience could produce, And I allow your rage that kind excuse. _Nour._ Call it not patience; 'tis your guilt stands mute; You have a cause too foul to bear dispute. You wrong me first, and urge my rage to rise: Then I must pass for mad; you, meek and wise. Good man! plead merit by your soft replies. Vain privilege poor women have of tongue; Men can stand silent, and resolve on wrong. _Emp._ What can I more? my friendship you refuse. And even my mildness, as my crime, accuse. _Nour._ Your sullen silence cheats not me, false man; I know you think the bloodiest things you can. Could you accuse me, you would raise your voice, Watch for my crimes, and in my guilt rejoice: But my known virtue is from scandal free, And leaves no shadow for your calumny. _Emp._ Such virtue is the plague of human life; A virtuous woman, but a cursed wife. In vain of pompous chastity you're proud; Virtue's adultery of the tongue, when loud. I, with less pain, a prostitute could bear, Than the shrill sound of--"_Virtue! virtue!_" hear. In unchaste wives There's yet a kind of recompensing ease; Vice keeps them humble, gives them care to please; But against clamorous virtue, what defence? It stops our mouths, and gives your noise pretence. _Nour._ Since virtue does your indignation raise, 'Tis pity but you had that wife you praise: Your own wild appetites are prone to range, And then you tax our humours with your change. _Emp._ What can be sweeter than our native home? Thither for ease and soft repose we come: Home is the sacred refuge of our life; Secured from all approaches, but a wife. If thence we fly, the cause admits no doubt; None but an inmate foe could force us out: Clamours our privacies uneasy make; Birds leave their nests disturbed, and beasts their haunts forsake. _Nour._ Honour's my crime, that has your loathing bred; You take no pleasure in a virtuous bed.