51�Թ�

Give me a patient hearing——Thy great son, As delicate in honour as in love, Hath nobly given my Barce to my arms; And yet I know he doats upon the maid.

Barce! those chains, those tortures, and that death, Will be his triumph.

This may be virtue; but I thank the gods, The soul of Barce's not a Roman soul.

Let me entreat thee, stay with Barce here Till our return.

His mighty soul, full as to thee it seems Of Rome, and glory—is enamour'd—caught— Enraptur'd with the beauties of fair Barce.—