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If e'er my Mother, Sir, were dear to you, As from your Tears I guest whene'er you nam'd her; If the remembrance of those Charms remain, Whose weak resemblance you have found in me, For which you oft have said you lov'd me dearly; Dispense your mercy, and preserve this Copy, Which else must perish with th'Original. King. Why all this Conjuration, Galatea? Gal.
No, Brennus, no longer thy sons shall retain Of their founder ferocious, th'original stain; It cannot be natural cruelty sure, The reproaches for which from all men we endure; Nor climate nor soil shall henceforth bear the blame, 'Tis custom alone, and that custom our shame: While arm'd at all points men were suffer'd to rove, And brandish the steel in defence of their love; What wonder that conduct or caution should fail, And horrid Lycanthropy's terrors prevail?
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