To wanton in the kinder Joys of Love--
Play all your sweetest Notes, such as inspire
The active Soul with new and soft Desire,
[_To_ the Musick, they play softly.
Whilst we from Eyes--thus dying, fan the Fire.
[_She sits down by him_.

_Abd_. Cease that ungrateful Noise.
[_Musick_ ceases.

_Qu_. Can ought that I command displease my Moor?

_Abd_. Away, fond Woman.

_Qu_. Nay, prithee be more kind.

_Abd_. Nay, prithee, good Queen, leave me--I am dull,
Unfit for Dalliance now.

_Qu_. Why dost thou frown?--to whom was that Curse sent?

_Abd_. To thee--

_Qu_. To me?--it cannot be--to me, sweet Moor?--
No, no, it cannot--prithee smile upon me--
Smile, whilst a thousand Cupids shall descend
And call thee Jove, and wait upon thy Smiles,
Deck thy smooth Brow with Flowers;
Whilst in my Eyes, needing no other Glass,
Thou shalt behold and wonder at thy Beauty.