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And no one else besides a trusty friend, Could know his motives; Then thou wrongst me too, For I admire, as much as thou dost Fred'rick, The fire of valour, e'en rash heedless valour; But not like thee do I depreciate That far superiour; yea that god-like talent, Which doth direct that fire, because indeed It is a talent nature has denied me.

Fred. Well, well, and greatly he may boast his virtue, Who risks perhaps th'Imperial army's fate, To please a lady's freaks—

Ros.Go, go, thou'rt prejudic'd: A passion, which I do not chuse to name, Has warp'd thy judgement.

Fred.No, by heav'n thou wrongst me! I do, with most enthusiastick warmth. True valour love; wherever he is found, I love the hero too; but hate to see The praises due to him so cheaply earn'd.

Ros. Then mayst thou now these gen'rous feelings prove. Behold the man whose short and grizzly hair In clust'ring locks, his dark brown face o'ershades; Where now the scars of former sabre wounds, In hon'rable companionship are seen With the deep lines of age; whose piercing eye, Beneath its shading eye-brow keenly darts Its yet unquenched beams, as tho' in age Its youthful fire had been again renew'd, To be the guardian of its darken'd mate.