_Cel_. How mean you, Madam?

_Dia_. Without a Miracle, look on my Eyes--
And Beauty--which you say can kindle Fires;
--She that can give, may too retain Desires.

_Cel_. She'll ravish me--let me not understand you.

_Dia_. Look on my Wrongs--
Wrongs that would melt a frozen Chastity,
That a religious Vow had made to Heaven:
--And next survey thy own Perfections.

_Cel_. Hah--

_Dia_. Art thou so young, thou canst not apprehend me?
Fair bashful Boy, hast thou the Power to move,
And yet not know the Bus'ness of thy Love?

_Cel_. How in an instant thou hast chill'd my Blood,
And made me know no Woman can be good?
'Tis Sin enough to yield--but thus to sue
Heav'n--'tis my Business--and not meant for you.

_Dia_. How little Love is understood by thee,
'Tis Custom, and not Passion you pursue;
Because Enjoyment first was nam'd by me,
It does destroy what shou'd your Flame renew:
My easy yielding does your Fire abate,