Page:A Series of Plays on the Passions Volume 1.pdf/161

Ros. I mean not to impute dishonest arts,
I mean not to impute—

Bas.No, 'faith, thou canst not.

Ros. What, can I not? their arts all women have.
But now of this no more; it moves thee greatly.
Yet once again, as a most loving friend,
Let me conjure thee, if thou prizest honour,
A soldier's fair repute, a hero's fame,
What noble spirits love; and well I know
Full dearly dost thou prize them, leave this place,
And give thy soldiers orders for the march.

Bas. Nay, since thou must assume it o'er me thus,
Be gen'ral, and command my soldiers too.

Ros. What hath this passion in so short a space,
O! curses on it! so far chang'd thee, Basil,
That thou dost take with such ungentle warmth,
The kindly freedom of thine ancient friend?
Methinks the beauty of a thousand maids
Would not have mov'd me thus to treat my friend,
My best, mine earliest friend!

Bas. Say kinsman rather; chance has link'd us so.
Our blood is near, our hearts are sever'd far;
No act of choice did e'er unite our souls.
Men most unlike we are; our thoughts unlike;
My breast disowns thee—thou'rt no friend of mine.

Ros. Ah! have I then so long, so dearly lov'd thee;
So often, with an elder brother's care,
Thy childish rambles tended, shared thy sports;
Fill'd up by stealth thy weary school-boy's task;