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Yea, put a bridle in the lion's mouth, And lead him forth as a domestick cur, These are the triumphs of all-pow'rful beauty! Did nought but flatt'ring words and tuneful praise, Sighs, tender glances, and obsequious service, Attend her presence, it were nothing worth. I'd put a white coif o'er my braided locks, And be a plain, good, simple, fire-side dame.

Who fills the duties of an useful state, A being of less dignity, than she Who vainly on her transient beauty builds A little poor ideal tyranny?

Isab. Ideal too!

Alb.Yes, most unreal pow'r; For she who only finds her self-esteem In others admiration, begs an alms, Depends on others for her daily food, And is the very servant of her slaves; Tho' oftentimes, in a fantastick hour, O'er men she may a childish pow'r exert, Which not ennobles, but degrades her state.

Vict. You are severe, Albini, most severe: Were human passions plac'd within the breast But to be curb'd, subdu'd, pluck'd by the roots? All heav'n's gifts to some good end were giv'n.

Alb. Yes, for a noble, for a gen'rous end.

Vict. Am I ungen'rous then?

Alb.O! most ungen'rous, Who for the pleasure of a little pow'r