Arth. That sign! ’twas once the royal head of James;
Some thirsty limner passing made it Charles;
I’ve heard it said ’twas e’en our good Queen Bess,
By curious folk that trac’d her high starch’d ruff
In the quaint faded back of antique chair,
Her stomacher in Charles’s shrivell’d vest—­
Who in his turn is gone.  Well, take this letter,
See the old knight; but not a word to him. 
Stay, I forgot, my little rosy cousin
Should be a woman now; thus—­full of wiles,
Glancing behind the man that trusts her love
To his best friend, and wanton with the girls
She troops with, in such trifling, foolish sort,
To turn the stomach of initiate man. 
Fie!  I care not to hear of her; yet ask
If she be well.  Commend me to my brother;
Thou wilt not tarry—­he will give thee gold,
And haste to welcome me—­go!  At the inn
We’ll meet some two hours hence.

[Exit R.]

Will. Hem!  I doubt much
About this welcoming.—­Sad human Nature! 
This brother was a careful, godly youth
That kept accounts, and smiling pass’d a beggar,
Saying, “Good-morrow, friend,” yet never gave. 
Where head doth early ripen, heart comes late—­
Therefore, I say, I doubt this welcoming. [Exeunt.]

SCENE II.

[Last Cut.] [2nd Grooves.]

An Apartment in a Manor House.

Enter BASIL WALTON and FLORENCE, R.

Basil. [following Florence.] I’ll break thy haughty spirit!

Flor. Will you, sir?—­
’Tis base, ungentle, and unmannerly,
Because, forsooth, you covet my poor wealth,
Which likes me not, as I care not for it,
To persecute a helpless girl like me.

Basil. I will protect thee; but accept my love.  Nay, do not frown so.

Flor. Love! say’st thou?  Profane, Vile misuse of that sacred word.  Away!  Touch not my hand with your cold fingers—­Off!

Basil. Thou foolish child, wouldst throw thyself away Upon some beggar? were he here, perchance Thy cousin Arthur?  Come, our lands unite, Be prudent—­

Flor. Prudent! 
Oh, there is no match
Half so imprudent, as when interest
Makes two, in heart divided, one—­no work
So vain, so mean, so heartless, dull and void,
As that of him who buys the hollow “yes”
From the pale lips where Love sits not enthron’d,
Nor fans with purple wing the bosom’s fire. 
Prudence! to waste a life, lose self-respect,
Or e’en the chance of love bestowed and met?—­

Basil. Sweet cousin, wilt not love me?

Flor. No! nor wish To hate thee, could I help it—­therefore, go!

Basil. Well then I must—­ [Seizes her hand.]

Flor. For pity’s sake; if not I’ll fly thee and my home.