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Bayes. There's a great Verse!
Vols. If Incense thou wilt offer at the Shrine
Of mighty Love, burn it to none but mine.
Her Rosie-lips eternal sweets exhale;
And her bright flames make all flames else look pale.
Bayes. I gad, that is right.
Pret. Perhaps dull Incense may thy love suffice;
But mine must be ador'd with Sacrifice.
All hearts turn ashes which her eyes controul:
The Body they consume as well as Soul.
Vols. My love has yet a power more Divine;
Victims her Altars burn not, but refine:
Amid'st the flames they ne'er give up the Ghost,
But, with her looks, revive still as they roast.
In spite of pain and death, they're kept alive:
Her fiery eyes makes 'em in fire survive.
Bayes. That is as well as I can do.
Vols. Let my Parthenope at length prevail.
Bayes. Civil, I gad.
Pret. I'l sooner have a passion for a Whale:
In whose vast bulk, though store of Oyl doth lye,
We find more shape more beauty in a Fly.
Smi. That's uncivil, I gad.
Bayes. Yes; but as far a fetch'd fancie, though, I gad, as ever you saw.
Vols. Soft, Pretty-man, let not thy vain pretence
Of perfect love, defame loves excellence.
Parthenope is sure as far above
All other loves, as above all is Love.
Bayes. Ah! I gad, that strikes me.
Pret. To blame my Cloris, Gods would not pretend.
Bayes. Now mark.
Vols. Were all Gods joyn'd, they could not hope to mend
My better choice: for fair Parthenope,
Gods would, themselves, un-god themselves to see.
Bayes. Now the Rant's a coming.
Pret.
