CHRYSANTHUS.
Let me know it even so.

DARIA.
That in me no love could grow
Save for one who first would die
For my love.

CHRYSANTHUS.
And death being past,
Would he win your love at last?--

DARIA.
Yes, on that he might rely.

CHRYSANTHUS.
Then I plight my troth that I
Will to that reward aspire,--
A poor offering at the fire
By those beauteous eyes supplied.

DARIA.
But as you have not yet died,
Pray do n't follow me, but retire. [Exit.

CHRYSANTHUS.
In what bosom, at one moment,
Oh! ye heavens! e'er met together[6]
Such a host of anxious troubles?