Why, thou sweet delicious creature, why torture me
with thy delay! Dar'st thou be false to thy assignation? What, in the
cool and silence of the night, and to a new lover?--Pox on the
hypocrite, thy father, for instructing thee so little in the sweetest
point of his religion.--Hark, I hear the rustling of her silk mantle.
Now she comes, now she comes:--no, hang it, that was but the whistling
of the wind through the orange-trees.--Now, again, I hear the
pit-a-pat of a pretty foot through the dark alley:--No, 'tis the son
of a mare, that's broken loose, and munching upon the melons.--Oh, the
misery of an expecting lover! Well, I'll e'en despair, go into my
arbour, and try to sleep; in a dream I shall enjoy her, in despite of
her. [_Goes into the Arbour, and lies down._
_Enter_ JOHAYMA, _wrapt up in a Moorish mantle._
_Joh._ Thus far my love has carried me, almost without my knowledge
whither I was going. Shall I go on? shall I discover myself?--What an
injury am I doing to my old husband! Yet what injury, since he's old,
and has three wives, and six concubines, besides me! 'tis but stealing
my own tithe from him. [_She comes a little nearer the Arbour._
_Ant._ [_Raising himself a little, and looking._] At last 'tis she;
this is no illusion, I am sure; 'tis a true she-devil of flesh and
blood, and she could never have taken a fitter time to tempt me.
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