Must I then lose your favour with my crown?

_Lyndar._ You'll soon return a conqueror again;
And, therefore, sir, your question is in vain.

_Abdul._ I think to certain victory I move;
But you may more assure it, by your love.
That grant will make my arms invincible.

_Lyndar._ My prayers and wishes your success foretell.--
Go then, and fight, and think you fight for me;
I wait but to reward your victory.

_Abdal._ But if I lose it, must I lose you too?

_Lyndar._ You are too curious, if you more would know.
I know not what my future thoughts will be:
Poor women's thoughts are all _extempore_.
Wise men, indeed,
Beforehand a long chain of thoughts produce;
But ours are only for our present use.

_Abdal._ Those thoughts, you will not know, too well declare.
You mean to wait the final doom of war.

_Lyndar._ I find you come to quarrel with me now;
Would you know more of me than I allow?
Whence are you grown that great divinity,
That with such ease into my thoughts can pry?
Indulgence does not with some tempers suit;