_Ind._ Howe'er unjust your jealousy appear, It shows the loss of what you love, you fear; And does my pity, not my anger move: I'll fond it, as the forward child of love. To show the truth of my unaltered breast, Know, that your life was given at my request, At least reprieved. When heaven denied you aid, She brought it, she, whose falsehood you upbraid. _Aur._ And 'tis by that you would your falsehood hide? Had you not asked, how happy had I died! Accurst reprieve! not to prolong my breath; It brought a lingering, and more painful death, I have not lived since first I heard the news; The gift the guilty giver does accuse. You knew the price, and the request did move, That you might pay the ransom with your love. _Ind._ Your accusation must, I see, take place;-- And am I guilty, infamous, and base? _Aur._ If you are false, those epithets are small; You're then the things, the abstract of them all. And you are false: You promised him your love,-- No other price a heart so hard could move. Do not I know him? Could his brutal mind Be wrought upon? Could he be just, or kind? Insultingly, he made your love his boast; Gave me my life, and told me what it cost. Speak; answer. I would fain yet think you true: Lie; and I'll not believe myself, but you. Tell me you love; I'll pardon the deceit, And, to be fooled, myself assist the cheat. _Ind._ No; 'tis too late; I have no more to say: If you'll believe I have been false, you may. _Aur._ I would not; but your crimes too plain appear: Nay, even that I should think you true, you fear. Did I not tell you, I would be deceived? _Ind._ I'm not concerned to have my truth believed. You would be cozened! would assist the cheat! But I'm too plain to join in the deceit: I'm pleased you think me false, And, whatsoe'er my letter did pretend, I made this meeting for no other end. _Aur._ Kill me not quite, with this indifference! When you are guiltless, boast not an offence. I know you better than yourself you know: Your heart was true, but did some frailty shew: You promised him your love, that I might live; But promised what you never meant to give. Speak, was't not so? confess; I can forgive. _Ind._ Forgive! what dull excuses you prepare, As if your thoughts of me were worth my care! _Aur._ Ah traitress! Ah ingrate! Ah faithless mind! Ah sex, invented first to damn mankind! Nature took care to dress you up for sin; Adorned, without; unfinished left, within. Hence, by no judgment you your loves direct; Talk much, ne'er think, and still the wrong affect. So much self-love in your composure's mixed, That love to others still remains unfixed: Greatness, and noise, and shew, are your delight; Yet wise men love you, in their own despite: And finding in their native wit no ease, Are forced to put your folly on, to please.