Ros.What shall I say, or how replyTo Threats of injur'd Majesty?Queen.'Tis Guilt that does thy Tongue controul.Or quickly drain the fatal Bowl,Or this right Hand performs its part,And plants a Dagger in thy Heart.Ros.Can Britain's Queen give such Commands,Or dip in Blood those sacred Hands?In Her shall such Revenge be seen?Far be that from Britain's Queen!Queen.How black does my Design appear?Was ever Mercy so severe! [Aside.Ros.When Tides of youthful Blood run high,And Scenes of promis'd Joys are nigh,Health presuming,Beauty blooming,Oh how dreadful 'tis to die!Queen.To those whom foul Dishonours stain,Life it self should be a Pain.Ros.Who could resist great Henry's Charms,And drive the Heroe from her Arms?Think on the soft, the tender Fires,Melting Thoughts and gay Desires,That in your own warm Bosom rise,When languishing with Love-sick EyesThat great, that charming Man you see:Think on your self, and pity me!0