Flor. Nay, father, talk not so.

Sir Sim. You should obey me.  Your mother never dar’d oppose me thus; She swore obedience, and I made her keep it.

Flor. [Aside.] My mother, she died young, and yet too old;
The breath of her whole life was one long sigh;
She look’d like her own mourning effigy. 
Her sad “good morrow” was as others say
“Good night.”  We never saw her smile but once,
And then we wept around her dying couch,
For ’twas the dazzling light of joy that stream’d
Upon her from the opening gates of heaven;
That smile was parted, she so gently died,
Between the wan corpse and the fleeting spirit.

Sir Sim. [Aside.] She looks just like her mother. 
That pale face
Making its sad obedience a reproach. 
If she would flout, sulk, scold, resist my will,
I’d make her have him ere the day grew cold.

Flor. Her very kisses chill’d our infant brows;
She pluck’d the very flowers of daily life
As from a grave where Silence only wept,
And none but Hope lay buried.  Her blue eyes
Were like Forget-me-nots, o’er which the shade
Of clouds still lingers when the moaning storm
Hath pass’d away in night.  It mattered not,
They were the home from which tears never wander’d.

Sir Sim. [Aloud.] I shall lose patience shortly. 
Oh, that gout! 
Here, girl, assist me.  Would you see me fall?

Flor. Well, father, leave me to myself awhile.  I would obey you if I could.

Sir Sim. That’s right. 
You know I’m rough, but then who loves you like
A father?  You ought not to try me thus;
Indeed you ought not.  Come, my dear, we’ll go,
And find your cousin. [FLORENCE hesitates.] Hey! not now?  Beware,
’Tis better now! no nonsense.  Come, come, come. 
You know you can do what you please with me,
But then you must be more obedient—­so!
[Going slowly, R.]
Your hand!  You do me harm, girl! with this strife. 
Gently—­your cousin never frets me thus. [Exeunt, R.]

[Enter BASIL reading a letter, WILLIAM following, L. FLORENCE returns, R., and steals behind them, and listens to their conversation.]

Basil. [With a letter in his hand.] Good William, thou shalt drink to me. [Gives him money.] And art thou still called thirsty William?

Will. What answer shall I bear to my master?

Basil. Thy master?  ’Tis a good youth, though a wild—­I hope he be well.  Yet, frankly, I would that he had not just now returned.  Our uncle is so violent, and will not hear his name.  Arthur hath been so imprudent, loose, eh?  William, I regret the old man hath heard of these things.

Will. My master is a very Puritan, sir!

Basil. [Aside.] Let his worth go begging, then—­but he will soon be bad as his fortunes demand.  Your poverty-stricken gentlemen were better on the coast of Barbary than in this civilized country.  And whatever he do, he shall be judged harshly. [Aloud to William.]