that 'tis tasted.

L. _Rod_. Variety alone supports dull Life, the light Amusements that
connect and change, Spur on the creeping Circle of the Year; I love to
humour an unbounded Genius, to give a lose to ev'ry spring of Fancy, to
rove, to range, to sport with different Countries, and share the Revels of
the Universe.

_Col_. My Genius fain wou'd Court superiour Blessings; those Passions are
too hurrying to last; Vapours that start from a Mercurial Brain, whose
wild Chimera's flush the lighter Faculties, which tir'd i'th'vain pursuit
of fancy'd Pleasures; a Passion more substantial Courts our Reason, solid,
persuasive, elegant, sublime, where ev'ry Sense crowds to the luscious
Banquet, and ev'ry nobler Faculty's imploy'd.

L. _Rod_. That Passion you describe's a sleeping Potion, a lazy, stupid,
lethargy of Mind, that nums our Faculties, destroys our Reason, and to our
Sex the bane of all Agreements; shou'd I whom Fortune, lavish of her
store, has given the means to glut insatiate Wishes, out-vie my Sex, and
Lord it o'er Mankind, constrain my rambling Pleasures, check my Liberty
for an insipid Cooing sort of Life, which marry'd Fools think Heav'n, and
cheat each other.

_Col_. Are Love and Pleasure, Madam, so incongruous?--Methinks the very
name of Love exhilerates; meaner delights were meant but to persuade us,
Toys to provoke and heighten our desires, which Love confirms and Crowns
with mightier extasie.

L. _Rod._ Rather all Joys expire, where Love commences; when that deluding
Passion once takes root, we grow insensible, ill-bred, intolerable,