_Abdelm._ Then, for your beauty I your soldiers spare:
For, though I do not love you, you are fair.

_Lyndar._ That little beauty why did heaven impart,
To please your eyes, but not to move your heart!
I'll shroud this gorgon from all human view,
And own no beauty, since it charms not you!
Reverse your orders, and your sentence give;
My soldiers shall not from my beauty live.

_Abdelm._ Then, from your friendship they their lives shall gain;
Tho' love be dead, yet friendship does remain.

_Lyndar._ That friendship, which from withered love does shoot,
Like the faint herbage on a rock, wants root.
Love is a tender amity, refined:
Grafted on friendship it exalts the kind.
But when the graff no longer does remain,
The dull stock lives, but never bears again.

_Abdelm._ Then, that my friendship may not doubtful prove,--
Fool that I am to tell you so!--I love.
You would extort this knowledge from my breast,
And tortured me so long that I confest.
Now I expect to suffer for my sin;
My monarchy must end, and yours begin.

_Lyndar._ Confess not love, but spare yourself that shame,
And call your passion by some other name.