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SCENE III.

Philodamus.
Such is the heart of man. No sooner quit
Of one anxiety, up starts another,
Ready to fill the vacant seat. It grieves me
To see this boy so very deep involv'd.
His thought, discourse, and soul is all Euphemia.
How desperate the fi'ry wish of youth!
How blind to the long train of ills behind!
High on Imagination's upper bough
Pleasure suspends her fruit, and shews its cheek,
Flaming with ruddy gold, to our impatience:
Does Fortune toss it to our longing hand?
We find in melancholy disappointment
The core consum'd by worms and rottenness,
The juice we hop'd so racy turn'd to bitterness.