Cyd.  Ah! happy beauty, whosoe’er thou art! 
Though dead, thou keep’st possession of his heart;
Thou makest me jealous to the last degree,
And art my rival in his memory: 
Within his memory! ah, more than so,
Thou livest and triumph’st o’er Cydaria too.

Cort.  What strange disquiet has uncalmed your breast,
Inhuman fair, to rob the dead of rest!—­
Poor heart! she slumbers in her silent tomb;
Let her possess in peace that narrow room.

Cyd.  Poor heart!—­he pities and bewails her death!—­
Some god, much hated soul, restore thy breath,
That I may kill thee; but, some ease ’twill be,
I’ll kill myself for but resembling thee.

Cort.  I dread your anger, your disquiet fear,
But blows, from hands so soft, who would not bear? 
So kind a passion why should I remove? 
Since jealousy but shows how well we love. 
Yet jealousy so strange I never knew;
Can she, who loves me not, disquiet you? 
For in the grave no passions fill the breast,
’Tis all we gain by death, to be at rest.

Cyd.  That she no longer loves, brings no relief; Your love to her still lives, and that’s my grief.

Cort.  The object of desire once ta’en away, ’Tis then not love, but pity, which we pay.

Cyd.  ’Tis such a pity I should never have,
When I must lie forgotten in the grave;
I meant to have obliged you, when I died,
That, after me, you should love none beside.—­
But you are false already.

Cort.  If untrue, By heaven! my falsehood is to her, not you.

Cyd.  Observe, sweet heaven, how falsely he does swear!—­ You said, you loved me for resembling her.

Cort.  That love was in me by resemblance bred, But shows you cheared my sorrows for the dead.

Cyd.  You still repeat the greatness of your grief.

Cort.  If that was great, how great was the relief!

Cyd.  The first love still the strongest we account.

Cort.  That seems more strong which could the first surmount: 
But if you still continue thus unkind,
Whom I love best, you, by my death, shall find.

Cyd.  If you should die, my death shall yours pursue; But yet I am not satisfied you’re true.

Cort.  Hear me, ye gods! and punish him you hear, If aught within the world I hold so dear.

Cyd.  You would deceive the gods and me; she’s dead, And is not in the world, whose love I dread.—­ Name not the world; say, nothing is so dear.

Cort.  Then nothing is,—­let that secure your fear.

Cyd.  ’Tis time must wear it off, but I must go.  Can you your constancy in absence show?

Cort.  Misdoubt my constancy, and do not try, But stay, and keep me ever in your eye.

Cyd.  If as a prisoner I were here, you might Have then insisted on a conqueror’s right, And staid me here; but now my love would be The effect of force, and I would give it free.