Air XXX. of a Noble Race Was Shenkin

Lucy.
Is then his Fate decreed, Sir?
Such a Man can I think of quitting?
When first we met, so moves me yet,
O see how my Heart is splitting!

Lockit. Look ye, Lucy—There is no saving him.—So, I think, you must ev’n do like other Widows—buy yourself Weeds, and be chearful.