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Her praise displeases me. To men like you If love should come, he proves no easy guest.

Bas. What dost thou think I am beside myself, And cannot view the fairness of perfection With that delight which lovely beauty gives, Without tormenting me with fruitless wishes; Like the poor child who sees its brighten'd face. And whimpers for the moon? Thou art not serious? From early youth, war has my mistress been, And tho' a rugged one. I'll constant prove, And not forsake her now. There may be joys Which to the strange o'erwhelming of the soul, Visit the lover's breast beyond all others; E'en now, how dearly do I feel there may! But what of them? they are not made for me— The hasty flashes of contending steel Must serve instead of glances from my love, And for soft breathing sighs the cannon's roar.

''Ros. taking his hand''. Now am I satisfied. Forgive me Basil.

Bas. I'm glad thou art, we'll talk of her no more. Why should I vex my friend?

Ros. Thou hast not giv'n orders for the march.

Bas. I'll do it soon; thou need'st not be afraid. To-morrow's sun shall bear us far from hence. Never perhaps to pass these gates again.

Ros. With last night's close did you not curse this town That would one single day your troops retard? And now, methinks, you talk of leaving it,