+Claud.+ Play not yourself into a shame will rūst your brightest Worths, and hide your dust in curses and black fame: I now shall think your valour flatter'd, that can Sink it to such effeminate and lovesick crafts, For our stale women to mollify the usher with. Dessandro has a fame, high and active as the voice It flies on; and could you wander from your Religious self in such a dream as this? Cleara's virtue has an interest near your heart, Should wake you to your first man again.
+Des.+ Cleara still is here in the first sculpture of Her virtues; and I their honourer.
+Claud.+ No more!---- My grief and shame are passionate, to find So much bad man got near your heart; and shows This sick complexion in your honour, more Tainted than the face of your imposture.---- You have play'd the excellent counterfeit, and your skill Does make you proud: you cannot blush-- [_Exit._
+Des.+ She's gone;-- A star shot from her eye, and light'ned through My blood. I must provide for thunder and Thy revenge, De Flame, as horrid as thought can Shape it.
+Des.+ Proud love, I'll meet thee with burning sighs And bleeding turtles at thy shrine. [_Aside._
+Cle.+ This is too bold a hazard for your health, Which yet sits wan and troubled on your cheek.
+Des.+ O, cry ye mercy! Some retired meditations.
+Cle.+ I shall observe 'em; Let me but leave you with the joy to know I stand not in the hazard of that frown.
+Des.+ So well, methinks we should not part so soon: Our hearts have been more ceremonious, and hung In panting sighs upon our lips, to bid adieu. One kiss must now sum up all; and seal their General release. I know Cleara more constant To her virtue and brave mind, than to ask heaven Idle questions. 'Tis fate, not will. [_Exit._
+Cle.+ So. I feel thy marble hand lie here: 'Tis cold, and heavy! How my poor heart throbs under it, and struggles to Find air! not one kind sigh lend thee a gale For yonder haven! It's gone! quite vanish'd! Beshrew me, it was a most horrible apparition! I wou'd not see it again In such a cruel look for all my hopes; Yet it held me gently by the hand, and left a warm farewell there, As my Dessandro us'd. As my Dessandro, said I? O, how fain my hopes would mock my apprehension; And that my sorrow!---- I'll woo thy pity with my groans, kind earth! And lay my throbbing breast to thine! Until I am dissolv'd into a spring, Whose murmurs shall eternally repeat This minute's story.