The sense of her perfections. Why I leave her,

   Is not from cloy'd or fickle appetite

   (For infinite is still her power to charm;)——

   But Heaven will have it so.

 Aust. Oh, name not Heaven!

   'Tis too profane abuse.

 Count. Win her consent.

   (I know thy sway is boundless o'er her will,)

   Then join my hand to blooming Isabel.

   Thus, will you do to all most worthy service;

[pg 29]

[pg 29]

  The curse, averted thus, shall pass from Narbonne;

  My house again may flourish; and proud Godfrey,

  Who now disputes, will ratify my title,

  Pleas'd with the rich succession to his heirs.

 Aust. Has passion drown'd all sense, all memory?

  She was affianc'd to your son, young Edmund.

 Count. She never lov'd my son. Our importunity

  Won her consent, but not her heart, to Edmund.

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