Jul.  Heaven has resigned my fortune to your hand, If you, like heaven, the afflicted understand.

Gons.  The language of the afflicted is not new; Too well I learned it, when I first saw you.

Jul.  In spite of me, you now command my fate;
And yet the vanquished seeks the victor’s hate;
Even in this low submission, I declare,
That, had I power, I would renew the war. 
I’m forced to stoop, and ’twere too great a blow
To bend my pride, and to deny me too.

Gons.  You have my heart; dispose it to your will; If not, you know the way to use it ill.

Jul.  Cruel to me, though kind to your desert,
My brother gives my person, not my heart;
And I have left no other means to sue,
But to you only, to be freed from you.

Gons.  From such a suit how can you hope success, Which, given, destroys the giver’s happiness?

Jul.  You think it equal you should not resign
That power you have, yet will not leave me mine;
Yet on my will I have the power alone,
And, since you cannot move it, move your own. 
Your worth and virtue my esteem may win,
But women’s passions from themselves begin;
Merit may be, but force still is, in vain.

Gons.  I would but love you, not your love constrain; And though your brother left me to command, He placed his thunder in a gentle hand.

Jul.  Your favour from constraint has set me free,
But that secures not my felicity;
Slaves, who, before, did cruel masters serve,
May fly to deserts, and in freedom starve. 
The noblest part of liberty they lose,
Who can but shun, and want the power to chuse.

Gons.  O whither would your fatal reasons move!  You court my kindness, to destroy my love.

Jul.  You have the power to make my happiness, By giving that, which you can ne’er possess.

Gons.  Give you to Roderick? there wanted yet That curse, to make my miseries complete.

Jul.  Departing misers bear a nobler mind;
They, when they can enjoy no more, are kind;
You, when your love is dying in despair,
Yet want the charity to make an heir.

Gons.  Though hope be dying, yet it is not dead; And dying people with small food are fed.

Jul.  The greatest kindness dying friends can have, Is to dispatch them, when we cannot save.

Gons.  Those dying people, could they speak’ at all,
That pity of their friends would murder call: 
For men with horror dissolution meet;
The minutes even of painful life are sweet.

Jul.  But I’m by powerful inclination led; And streams turn seldom to their fountain head.

Gons.  No; ’tis a tide which carries you away; And tides may turn, though they can never stay.

Jul.  Can you pretend to love, and see my grief Caused by yourself, yet give me no relief?