Then if ever,
Now or never,
Come and have it;
Think not I
Dare deny
If you crave it. (I. iii. 71.)

Her fortune with the modest Daphnis is scarcely better, and she is just lamenting the coldness of men when Alexis enters and forthwith accosts her with his fervent suit.  She agrees, with a pretty show of yielding modesty: 

                        lend me all thy red,
    Thou shame-fac’d Morning, when from Tithon’s bed
    Thou risest ever maiden! (ib. 176.)

The second act opens with the exquisite evensong of the priest: 

    Shepherds all and maidens fair,
    Fold your flocks up, for the air
    ’Gins to thicken, and the sun
    Already his great course hath run. 
    See the dew-drops how they kiss
    Every little flower that is,
    Hanging on their velvet heads
    Like a rope of crystal beads;
    See the heavy clouds low falling,
    And bright Hesperus down calling
    The dead night from under ground,
    At whose rising mists unsound,
    Damps and vapours fly apace,
    Hovering o’er the wanton face
    Of these pastures, where they come
    Striking dead both bud and bloom. (II. i. 1.)

In the following scene Thenot declares to Clorin his singular passion, founded upon admiration of her constancy to her dead lover.  He too can plead his love in verse of no ordinary strain: 

                 ’Tis not the white or red
    Inhabits in your cheek that thus can wed
    My mind to adoration, nor your eye,
    Though it be full and fair, your forehead high
    And smooth as Pelops’ shoulder; not the smile
    Lies watching in those dimples to beguile
    The easy soul, your hands and fingers long
    With veins enamell’d richly, nor your tongue,
    Though it spoke sweeter than Arion’s harp;
    Your hair woven in many a curious warp,
    Able in endless error to enfold
    The wandering soul; not the true perfect mould
    Of all your body, which as pure doth shew
    In maiden whiteness as the Alpen snow: 
    All these, were but your constancy away,
    Would please me less than the black stormy day
    The wretched seaman toiling through the deep. 
    But, whilst this honour’d strictness you do keep,
    Though all the plagues that e’er begotten were
    In the great womb of air were settled here,
    In opposition, I would, like the tree,
    Shake off those drops of weakness, and be free
    Even in the arm of danger. (II. ii. 116.)

The last lines, however fine in themselves, are utterly out of place in the mouth of this morbid sentimentalist.  They breath the brave spirit of Chapman’s outburst: 

Give me a spirit that on this life’s rough sea
Loves t’have his sails fill’d with a lusty wind,
Even till his sail-yards tremble, his masts crack,
And his rapt ship run on her side so low
That she drinks water and her keel plows air.

                                                  (Byron’s Conspiracy, III. i.)