Oran

They dread these trances, whose dim fame Hath floated on the ignorant air to them. They deem this priceless power, new-fall'n on me, And treasured for thy sake, my best beloved, A most pernicious art, that may, perchance, Work evil upon thee; say, dost thou fear? My Mabel, hast thou faith and trust in me? Shall I proceed, or break this magic wand, Wherewith they deem that I am dower'd withal?