SCENE V.
SCENE, another Part of Abdalla's Garden.
Enter Morat.
Morat.
This stubborn Maid meets not my Flame
With suiting Fervour. Scorn and Coldness
Sit on her sullen Brow,
And speak a Heart estrang'd.
Shall I then link me to Disdain?
A gen'rous Pride forbids that Shame.
I'll seek her out, and sound her inmost Thoughts.
Here, in her private Haunts, 'tis said,
A seeming Turk, a comely White,
Holds her in secret Converse.
That wakes Surmise; and just Suspicions
Shall spur me to Revenge.
The puny God of Love, who binds
In silken Fetters feeble Minds,
No Tyrant o'er this Heart shall reign.
With Rage I'll scare the idle Boy,
Break all his Darts, his Wiles destroy,
And, like the Lion, shake my Chain.
Exit Morat.
