Eger.  Why ay! she is sprightly, good humoured, and, though whimsical, and often too high in her colouring of characters, and in the trifling business of the idle world,—­yet I think she has principles, and a good heart,—­[with a glow of conjugal tenderness.] but in a partner for life, Sidney, (you know your own precept, and your own judgment)—­affection, capricious in its nature, must have something even in the external manners,—­nay in the very mode, not only of beauty, but of virtue itself—­ which both heart and judgment must approve, or our happiness in that delicate point cannot be lasting.

Sid.  I grant it.

Eger.  And that mode,—­that amiable essential I never can meet—­but in Constantia.  You sigh.

Sid.  No.  I only wish that Constantia had a fortune equal to yours.  But pray, Charles, suppose I had been so indiscreet as to have agreed to marry you to Constantia—­would she have consented, think you?

Eger.  That I cannot say positively,—­but I suppose so.

Sid.  Did you never speak to her upon that subject then?

Eger.  In general terms only;—­never directly requested her consent in form,—­[he starts into a warmth of amorous resolution.] but I will this very moment—­for I have no asylum from my father’s arbitrary design, but my Constantia’s arms.—­Pray do not stir from hence:—­I will return instantly.  I know she will submit to your advice—­and I am sure you will persuade her to my wish, as my life, my peace, my earthly happiness, depend on my Constantia. [Exit.

Sid.  Poor Charles! he little dreams that I love Constantia too,—­but to what degree I knew not myself, till he importuned me to join their hands.—­Yes—­I love—­but must not be a rival; for he is dear to me as fraternal affinity:—­my benefactor—­my friend—­and that name is sacred:—­ it is our better self; and ever ought to be preferred;—­for the man who gratifies his passions at the expence of his friend’s happiness, wants but a head to contrive—­for he has a heart capable of the blackest vice.

    Enter BETTY, running up to Sidney.

Bet.  I beg pardon for my intrusion, sir.  I hope, sir, I do not disturb your reverence!

Sid.  Not in the least, Mrs. Betty.

Bet.  I humbly beg you will excuse me, sir:—­but I wanted to break my mind to your honour—­about a scruple that lies upon my conscience:—­and indeed I should not have presumed to trouble you, sir, but that I know you are my young master’s friend,—­and my old master’s friend,—­and indeed—­a friend to the whole family:  [runs up to him and curtsies very low.] for to give you your due, sir, you are as good a preacher as ever went into a pulpit.

Sid.  Ha, ha, ha! do you think so, Mrs. Betty?

Bet.  Ay, in truth do I; and as good a gentleman too as ever came into a family, and one that never gives a servant a bad word, nor that does any one an ill turn neither behind their back, nor before their face.