Almanz. ’Tis pity, words, which none but gods should hear,
Should lose their sweetness in a soldier’s ear: 
I am not that Almanzor whom you praise;
But your fair mouth can fair ideas raise:—­
I am a wretch, to whom it is denied
To accept, with honour, what I wish with pride;
And, since I light not for myself, must bring
The fruits of all my conquests to the king.

Lyndar. Say rather to the queen, to whose fair name
I know you vow the trophies of your fame. 
I hope she is as kind as she is fair;
Kinder than inexperienced virgins are
To their first loves; (though she has loved before,
And that first innocence is now no more:)
But, in revenge, she gives you all her heart,
(For you are much too brave to take a part.)
Though, blinded by a crown, she did not see
Almanzor greater than a king could be,
I hope her love repairs her ill-made choice: 
Almanzor cannot be deluded twice.

Almanz. No, not deluded; for none count their gains, Who, like Almanzor, frankly give their pains.

Lyndar. Almanzor, do not cheat yourself, nor me;
Your love is not refined to that degree: 
For, since you have desires, and those not blest,
Your love’s uneasy, and at little rest.

Almanz. ’Tis true, my own unhappiness I see;
But who, alas, can my physician be? 
Love, like a lazy ague, I endure,
Which fears the water, and abhors the cure.

Lyndar. ’Tis a consumption, which your life does waste,
Still flattering you with hope, till help be past;
But, since of cure from her you now despair,
You, like consumptive men, should change your air: 
Love somewhere else; ’tis a hard remedy,
But yet you owe yourself so much, to try.

Almanz. My love’s now grown so much a part of me,
That life would, in the cure, endangered be: 
At least, it like a limb cut off would show;
And better die than like a cripple go.

Lyndar. You must be brought like madmen to their cure,
And darkness first, and next new bonds endure: 
Do you dark absence to yourself ordain,
And I, in charity, will find the chain.

Almanz. Love is that madness which all lovers have;
But yet ’tis sweet and pleasing so to rave: 
’Tis an enchantment, where the reason’s bound;
But Paradise is in the enchanted ground;
A palace, void of envy, cares and strife,
Where gentle hours delude so much of life. 
To take those charms away, and set me free,
Is but to send me into misery;
And prudence, of whose cure so much you boast,
Restores those pains, which that sweet folly lost.

Lyndar. I would not, like philosophers, remove,
But show you a more pleasing shape of love. 
You a sad, sullen, froward love did see;
I’ll show him kind, and full of gaiety. 
In short, Almanzor, it shall be my care
To show you love; for you but saw despair.