Claudius. 
Which would it be?

Chrysanthus. 
                    The one that ’s fair.

Escarpin. 
My blessings on your choice and you! 
That ’s my opinion in the case,
’T is plain at least to my discerning
That in a woman wit and learning
Are nothing to a pretty face.

Nisida. 
Chloris, quick, take up the lyre,
For a rustling noise I hear
In this shady thicket near: 
Yes, I ’m right, I must retire. 
Swift as feet can fly I ’ll go. 
For these men that here have strayed
Must have heard me while I played. [Exeunt Nisida and Chloris.

Cynthia. 
One of them I think I know. 
Yes, ’t is Claudius, as I thought,
Now he has a chance:  I ’ll see
If he cares to follow me,
Guessing rightly what has brought
Me to-day unto the grove:—­
Ah! if love to grief is leading
Of what use to me is reading
In the Remedies of Love? [Exit.

Daria (to herself). 
In these bowers by trees o’ergrown,
Here contented I remain,
All companionship is vain,
Save my own sweet thoughts alone:—­

Claudius. 
Dear Chrysanthus, your election
Was to me both loss and gain,
Gave me pleasure, gave me pain:—­
It seemed plain to my affection
(Being in love) your choice should fall
On the maid of pensive look,
Not on her who read the book: 
But your praise made up for all. 
And since each has equal force,
My complaint and gratulation,
Whilst with trembling expectation
I pursue my own love’s course,
Try your fortune too, till we
Meet again. [Exit.

Chrysanthus. 
             Confused I stay,
Without power to go away,
Spirit-bound, my feet not free. 
From the instant that on me,
As a sudden beam might dart,
Flashed that form which Phidian art
Could not reach, I ’ve known no rest.—­
Babylon is in my breast—­
Troy is burning in my heart.

Escarpin. 
Strange that I should feel as you,
That one thought should fire us two,
I too, sir, have lost my senses
Since I saw that lady.

Chrysanthus. 
                        Who,
Madman! fool! do you speak of? you! 
Dare to feel those griefs of mine!—­

Escarpin. 
No, sir, yours I quite resign,
Would I could my own ones too!—­

Chrysanthus. 
Leave me, or my wrath you ’ll rue;
Hence! buffoon:  by heaven I swear it,
I will kill you else.

Escarpin. 
                       I go:—­
For if you address her, oh! 
Could my jealous bosom bear it? [aside [Exit.