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 * Cel. [Aside.] Into what Hands, ye Gods! have you refign'd

Your World? Are these the Masters of Mankind? These supple Romans teach our Women Scorn. I thank you, Gods, that I'm a Briton born. Agree these Trifles in a short Debate: Woman [To her.] no more of this, but follow strait: And you [To him.] be quick, I am not us'd to wait. [Exit Celius.


 * Ori. Your Stars and mine have chosen you, to prove

The noblest Way how gen'rous Men should love; All boast their Flames, but yet no Woman found A Passion, where Self-love was not the Ground. Now we're ador'd, and the next Hour displease, At first your Cure, and after, your Disease: Slaves we are made, by false Pretences caught; The Briton in my Soul disdains the Thought.


 * Con. So much, so tenderly, your Slave adores,

He has no Thought of Happiness, but yours.


 * Ori. Vows may be feign'd, nor shall meer words prevail,

I must have Proofs; but Proofs that cannot fail. By Arms, by Honour, and by all that's dear To Heroes, or expecting Lovers, swear. Rh