Will. What a rank prude is woman, thus to disguise her inclination.  They call thee Barbara—­Bab! restrain not thy fancy.  Come, hang round my neck and love me.  What! wouldst thou be an exception to thy sex?

Barb. [Strikes him.] Take that, thou coxcomb!

[Runs up the stage, WILLIAM follows, ARTHUR and FLORENCE advancing.]

Arth. Break not my dream.  It is not late.  The night
Will lose her beauty as thy footsteps fade
In distance from me.  Florence, go not yet. 
I had a thousand loyal thoughts, I swear,
To utter, and as many questions, Florence,
To ask thee of thyself.  Thou lovest not,
Thou canst not love my brother; for thou saidst
As much, nay more, this moment.

Flor. Did I so?  Perchance I might have done; but then I love My father—­

Arth. Tell me so again!

Flor. Indeed, I love My father!

Arth. Cruel! no, I’d have thee say If thou dost love my brother.

Flor. He’s my cousin.

Arth. Or any one!

Barb. Dear lady, it is time.

Flor. Farewell, sir! yet I bid you take this purse ’Tis justice—­nay, my will!

Arth. Oh, farewell, Florence
May angels light thy feet, and all the stars
From heaven race with envious beams to shed
Celestial brightness on the path thou blessest.

[Exit FLORENCE, R. ARTHUR gazes after FLORENCE.  WILLIAM and BARBARA, coming down, L.]

Will. Sweet Bab, I love thee.

Barb. That is a man’s saying.

Will. Thou wouldst not have it said by anything but a man.  Thou wilt not forget?

Barb. There, yes! no! anything!

[Tries to get away.  WILLIAM gives BARBARA a kiss.]

Barb. Oh, dear, I must go. [Exit R.]

Arth. She’s gone!

Will. They are, sir!

Arth. What they—­

Will. Mistress Florence and Barbara, sir!

Arth. Why stand here prating, then? 
Go follow; see no harm comes, quick, the road
Is dangerous.  I’ll wait here.  Leave them not
Before they are safe in. [Exit WILLIAM, R.]
For thy sake, Florence,
I will believe perfection’s in thy sex. 
How much I might have said.  Yes!  I have been
Imagination’s wildest fool to deck
With qualities that did beseem them not
All the worst half of women.  Thus we stoop
To pick up hectic apples from the ground,
Pierc’d by the canker or the unseen worm,
And tasting deem none other grow but they,
Whilst on the topmost branches of life’s tree
Hangs fruitage worthy of the virgin choir
Of bright Hesperides.  Soft!  Who comes here? 
Surely my rascal is not yet return’d—­
The times are full of plotting.  I will hide—­