crowd? Say, say, my lovely charmer, is she not? Does not this fatal
interest you espouse, rival your _Sylvia_? Is she not too often
remov'd thence to let in that haughty tyrant mistress? Alas,
_Philander_, I more than fear she is: and oh, my adorable lover, when
I look forward on our coming happiness, whenever I lay by the thoughts
of honour, and give a loose to love; I run not far in the pleasing
career, before that dreadful thought stopp'd me on my way: I have a
fatal prophetic fear, that gives a check to my soft pursuit, and tells
me that thy unhappy engagement in this League, this accursed
association, will one day undo us both, and part for ever thee and thy
unlucky _Sylvia_; yes, yes, my dear lord, my soul does presage an
unfortunate event from this dire engagement; nor can your false
reasoning, your fancied advantages, reconcile it to my honest,
good-natur'd heart; and surely the design is inconsistent with love,
for two such mighty contradictions and enemies, as love and ambition,
or revenge, can never sure abide in one soul together, at least love
can but share _Philander_'s heart; when blood and revenge (which he
miscalls glory) rivals it, and has possibly the greater part in it:
methinks, this notion enlarges in me, and every word I speak, and
every minute's thought of it, strengthens its reason to me; and give
me leave (while I am full of the jealousy of it) to express my
sentiments, and lay before you those reasons, that love and I think
most substantial ones; what you have hitherto desired of me, oh
unreasonable _Philander_, and what I (out of modesty and honour)
denied, I have reason to fear (from the absolute conquest you have
made of my heart) that some time or other the charming thief may break
in and rob me of; for fame and virtue love begins to laugh at. My dear
unfortunate condition being thus, it is not impossible, oh
_Philander_, but I may one day, in some unlucky hour, in some soft
bewitching moment, in some spiteful, critical, ravishing minute, yield