Donna Elvira

Fie, for a man of mode, accustomed at the court To such a style of thing, how awkwardly my lord Attempts defence! You move compassion, that 's the word-- Dumb-foundered and chapfallen! Why don't you arm your brow With noble impudence? Why don't you swear and vow No sort of change is come to any sentiment You ever had for me? Affection holds the bent, You love me now as erst, with passion that makes pale All ardor else: nor aught in nature can avail To separate us two, save what, in stopping breath, May peradventure stop devotion likewise--death!